


In Your Hands

by elfenphoenix



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Arcane Warrior AU, Combining all three stories in the timeline, Cullavellan - Freeform, F/M, Honestly just assume all my OCs are bi/pansexual unless I say otherwise, Inquisitor befriends an eagle, Inquisitor gets an animal companion, Lavellan backstory AU, Mercy and Trust, Multi, female warriors, fenhawke - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:48:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 176,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22935823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfenphoenix/pseuds/elfenphoenix
Summary: Hero, Champion, Inquisitor. Their paths intertwine more than anyone could guess, together shaping and reshaping the world with every step they take. But how does one gain enough power to save the world? Is it consumed? Found by accident? Or a product of birth? And what dangers does that power conceal?Esfera Cousland, seeker of the past-- A new recruit to an ancient order, she’s got a lot of history to catch up on before she and her companions can save Ferelden from the Blight. But that search doesn’t just lead to dusty books-- it leads to hidden artifacts, long lost magics, and powerful demons.Naiyah Hawke, weapon of the present-- She’ll do anything it takes to protect her ever-growing list of loved ones, but she doesn’t realize that the power to do so is literally coursing through her veins. A power she is forced to call upon more and more as Kirkwall spirals into chaos. And the more she uses it, the more it threatens to tear her apart.Therilli Lavellan, protector of the future-- Sometimes it seems like she's the only one in the world interested in moving forward, not back. And she'll gladly keep accidentally stepping into harm's way to protect the world she knows and all that she loves within it.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland (Dragon Age), Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford, Fenris/Female Hawke
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	1. Naiyah Hawke- Paths Cross

The Blight arrived first in Lothering not as an assault, but as an echo, as ripples outwards from the place the stone had been cast.

First had been the whispers, the rumors of darkspawn spotted on the surface for the first time in ages. Then the proud, wild Chasind, running out of the Korcari Wilds with fear-brimmed eyes. Then King Cailan’s army, marching along the outskirts of town, many soldiers breaking off to visit the Chantry and pray. For victory, certainly, but many for quick deaths before the Blight could turn them into ghouls. Most, both. 

Then the first wave of Ferelden refugees, farmers from the Banns to the south, those who had little faith in the Crown’s ability to stop the hordes of darkspawn. There were not enough Grey Wardens in Ferelden to stem the tides of a Blight, they whispered. And some answered that it was no true Blight, just one of the occasional Darkspawn surges to the surface, like Teyrn Loghain claimed. But few truly believed it, in their heart of hearts. 

The whole town-- no, the whole kingdom-- was holding its breath, waiting for the battle at Ostagar to determine whether the ripples would become waves.

Among them was the Hawke family, continuing to eke out their meager living on the southern edges of the village, close enough to purchase the supplies they needed but far enough that the magic running deep through the family’s blood was just out of sight of the Chantry’s Templars. 

Many refugees entered Lothering cold, hungry, injured, some so desperate that they came directly to the family’s front door to beg for aid, their numbers growing as the village’s small Chantry grew overwhelmed, its resources stretched thin. 

It was heartbreaking for the family to have to turn them away, but what else could they do? They could not let people see Bethany’s magic, even if it could be used to help them. Instead, their mother would offer the refugees what little food and blankets they could spare and send her warrior children to accompany them into town, carrying their belongings or even the refugees themselves into the waiting hands of the Chantry.

For those that were injured, the family could not help. Not unless they were unconscious and wouldn’t remember Bethany’s hands over their wounds, mending the flesh and returning their strength. For those who could remember, Bethany was forced to keep her magic to herself, instead spending her days going to the Chantry to listen to the songs, pray, and aid the Sisters as they tended to the refugee camp. Nonmagical means, of course. 

The risk of this was not lost on Leandra Amell, who worried after her apostate daughter just as much as she had worried after her apostate husband. Perhaps even more.

She constantly asked her oldest, Naiyah, to watch over Bethany, protect her. Not that her urgings were necessary-- protecting her younger siblings had formed the core of her identity. But the time for that was up.

“It’s a summons to the army, Mother,” Naiyah explained, dangling the letter in front of Leandra’s face. “Carver and I are to join the king’s forces at Ostagar and face the darkspawn.”

At this, Leandra gasped and covered her face, her eyes already growing fearful. “No… not my precious children, too!”

At this, Naiyah crossed her arms and scowled at her mother. “Come now, you didn’t really think we would stay as guards of a village forever, did you? We swore an oath to the Crown, remember? It’s time to make good on it.” She laid her hand on her mother’s shoulder, softening for a moment. “And besides… we need the coin.”

Carver was already on his feet, pushing his twin sister out of the way to begin packing his bags. “She’s right, mother. This is our chance to really _do_ something! To bring honor to the Hawke name!”

Naiyah rolled her eyes, which Leandra seemed not to see. She merely sighed and collected herself, looking pleadingly up at Naiyah. “Please… protect your brother. Keep him safe; don’t you dare let those wretched creatures take him!”

 _We’re in different companies, so that’s going to be next to impossible_ , Hawke thought, but didn’t say so. Her mother was distraught enough already. “We’ll be fine, Mother! Have I _ever_ lost a street brawl? Darkspawn have nothing on _these_ ,” she joked, flexing her biceps for emphasis.

Leandra laughed. “I suppose you are right. Hurry then. Bethany and I will take care of the house while you’re gone.”

Behind her, Bethany groaned. “What, _housework_ , Mother?! Is that really important when we have a monstrous army on our doorstep?!”

“It is when any other options mean you won’t be home when your sister and brother return-- you’ll be locked in the Circle.”

Ignoring Bethany’s protests, Naiyah and Carver got to work getting their bags packed and their Ferelden Military regulation armor strapped on. All the while, Naiyah fought to keep the atmosphere lighthearted, teasing Bethany for the marriage proposal she’d received from one of the refugees they’d helped, putting Carver into a headlock so that she could aggressively ruffle his hair. It was all a performance, of course. The sky seemed to be pressing down upon Ferelden, the weight of it only adding to all that Naiyah Hawke carried every day in desperate attempts to keep her family safe, together.

When everything was ready, Naiyah embraced her sister and mother in turn, tight enough to make their backbones remember her touch for quite some time. And then she lifted her greatsword, hooking it onto the back of her armor, and whacked Carver between the shoulderblades. “Alright, kiddo, let’s get going. Don’t want the general to think we’ve deserted.”

He grimaced at the nickname, but chose not to address it. “You think we’ll meet General Mac Tir?”

Naiyah shivered. “Maker, I hope not.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sure enough, Naiyah and Carver were separated almost as soon as they got to Ostagar. It was nigh inevitable, since as her younger brother, Carver had joined the Ferelden military a few years after she did and had been sifted in accordingly. The army would never turn down sword-arms as beefy as the Hawkes’. 

The camp was a chaos of noise, the constant shouting of orders, of the clank of armor, of edges of blades grinding against blacksmiths’ whetstones, the barking, whining, and howling of Mabari hounds, the roaring fires, the eerie humming of magic from the Circle’s section of camp. It was everything and everywhere all at once, barely lessening even as day faded to evening, and evening to night.

After a long day of following orders barked out by self-important commanding officers supposedly directly from Teyrn Loghain himself, Naiyah was relieved to finally set up her tent, settling down in front of the bonfire for the night and sharpening her sword.

She wasn’t really cut out for being a soldier, she thought as she ran the whetstone over the blade’s edge. There was too much pageantry, too much ass-kissing in order to get any measure of respect. It was always “stand straight,” “look honorable,” “no stealing”... so irritating. But there was good money to be made as a soldier. Well, there was _some_ money to be made as a soldier, one of few occupations that would pay for her particular skill set. Some part of her thought she would be better off as a mercenary-- at least then she’d be able to make her own rules. But she knew her mother still had nobility in her, wanting to see her children live respectable lives. Anything to throw off the aura of “apostate” that hung over their whole family.

Carver was much better at it than Naiyah was. Always eager to please, to prove himself. She knew that he felt as if she cast a shadow over him. Perhaps this battle would be good for him. Then he might stop hating her so much. But, well, a Carver who _didn’t_ despise her was an incredibly odd thought. She tried to imagine her bitter, angry young brother smiling and thanking her for her help, like Bethany often did, and just found herself laughing and shaking the thought out of her head as she went to turn in for the night. Nah, Carver was only Carver when he was an ungrateful brat.

The following day was spent running drills, stifling yawns in the back of her hand, then pretending she hadn’t done so as soon as the Lieutenant got all up in her face about it.

“Are you tired, Hawke?!”

“No, Lieutenant.”

“If you need some more rest, please feel free! The darkspawn may just be gone by the time you wake!”

Behind her, some recruits snickered, but Hawke only fought a smirk, answering lightly, “Oh no, Ser, you misunderstand. I received plenty of rest. I only wonder if you intend to _fight_ the darkspawn, or if you intend to stop the hordes by boring them to death with your endless prattle.”

The man’s face turned a delightful shade of angry red, and Hawke readied herself for the push-ups, shit-scrubbing, or other punishment he had in mind for her, but fortunately he was interrupted by the passing of King Cailan’s entourage, freezing his rage long enough to bow, though the king seemed not even to see him as he made his way to the entrance of the ruins to greet a new group of arrivals.

Hawke watched the king pass out of the corner of her eye, not wanting to draw more attention to herself than she already had, though she was too curious to avoid looking altogether.

King Cailan looked younger than he actually was, she noted. His face had a kind of… innocence to it, unwrinkled by the passage of time. He seemed eager, excited, completely unfazed by the oppressive fear that had settled over the land. He reminded her of Carver, honestly. Looked nothing at all alike, of course-- perfectly-groomed golden hair and shining golden armor compared to Carver’s black tangles and requisition steel-- but their mannerisms were similar. 

The people he was going to greet-- Grey Wardens. Or, well, at least one of them was, the shining silver griffon emblazoning his shield catching the afternoon sunlight. But she didn’t get the chance to look closer, nor see the rest, since her lieutenant returned his attention to her company, barking more orders, though thankfully having forgotten her blatant insubordination.

It was only later, when evening came again and the bonfire in the Grey Wardens’ section of the camp was blazing high did Hawke see the blood-splattered Warden recruits as they returned from some mission in the Korcari Wilds. They passed her tent on their way to rejoin their Commander, too involved in their important business to notice a single soldier scarfing down her supper. Yet, one did. A tall woman, even bulkier than Hawke, with long, ginger hair tightly braided into a rope draped over her shoulder and a sword and shield slung over her back. Pausing in her banter with the handsome young man in Grey Warden armor who could not take his eyes off of her to glance down at Hawke as she passed, giving her an encouraging smile. 

In spite of herself, Hawke felt her heart skip a beat. There was something about how the woman had carried herself that was so _different_ from Hawke, the shine of the sword at her back, the kindness in her green eyes, that it made Hawke shiver. That, or the smooth curves of the sizable muscles under her studded-leather armor. Whichever.

But then the woman was gone, passing to the Warden-Commander, and Hawke was distracted by another soldier joining her at the fire, groaning as he commented on her “dramatic beauty.” Yes yes, long black hair and red lips did tend to draw attention. She liked the attention, of course (it kept it away from Bethany), but never with any plans on indulging it. Still, it was best to play nice, or she wouldn’t get paid.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The nerves finally came to Hawke when it was time for the army to assemble against the darkspawn under cover of darkness. Orders trickled down from the top like sifted flour, always some of it left behind in the sieve. They were to fight with the Grey Wardens-- no, flank the darkspawn-- no, wait for the signal. It was maddening.

She saw her brother one last time as he followed his company into place, giving him a thumbs-up as he passed, which he returned only with a scowl. His company was to follow Loghain, waiting for the signal from the tower of Ishal, and charge when the time was right. Her company, meanwhile, stood behind King Cailan and the Grey Wardens, ready for the Darkspawn to be lured into a charge. They would see each other on the battlefield soon enough.

And then there was only the waiting, her muscles tensing against the rising silence. Her sword felt unusually heavy at her back as she stared out at the Korcari Wilds below them, as the first of the torches appeared through the trees.

One, then four, then ten, then hundreds, flickering bright with malice, illuminating flashes of shoulders, armor, twisted faces of demented men-like creatures. The horde was quiet, much quieter than she had imagined they could be. It was as if the Darkspawn swallowed all that was before them, even sound itself. 

Dwarf-sized genlocks. Big, brawny Hurlocks. Their huge, helmeted alphas. And towering over them, horned shapes that turned even the prideful Naiyah Hawke’s bones to jelly. Ogres.

But she stood fast, stood firm. She had to. She was very near the front lines, only the Ash Warrior berserkers and their painted Mabari standing between Hawke and the Grey Wardens, though she noticed that the tall, ginger-haired woman from before was not among them. 

The hope was that Hawke, with sweeps of her huge greatsword, would break the charges of oncoming Hurlocks, knocking them down so that those behind her with smaller blades could finish them off. She imagined Carver was in much the same position in his own company. Such a copycat, not that he’d admit it.

Silence, silence, silence. She smelled incense, glancing to see a Chantry Sister walk serenely by, whispering blessings and prayers to the Maker as she passed, her eyes so cold with fear that she would not meet Hawke’s. 

Before her, she heard the king shout for archers, then the twang of hundreds of bowstrings from behind her. The call for hounds, their barks finally truly breaking the silence. They charged forward into the fires of the Darkspawn, pulling many down but there were so many more, so many, they were outnumbered, they were…

No. They were ready. They had reinforcements.

Hawke swallowed down her fear and tensed, seeing her Captain hold up a finger, indicating for them to wait for the King’s order.

“For Ferelden!”

At last, the tension snapped. Hawke’s hands flew to the hilt of her greatsword, sliding it off of her back as her feet and the tide of her fellow soldiers carried her forward, behind the Grey Wardens. Behind the king. 

She met the charge before her eyes could make sense of it, swinging her blade in great arcs, large enough to cut down the monsters before they could get close enough to reach her with their own blades. With each swing, blackened blood sprayed into the air, and she was glad for the mouthguard of her helmet, keeping even a drop of it from crossing her lips.

All around her was the screaming, the hissing, the screeching of these unholy beasts, the clang of blades. Her body was moving quickly, faster, faster, as if with each beat of her heart she was cutting down another darkspawn, clearing the way for the soldiers around her. Her eyes were slower than her arms, somehow, barely fast enough to keep her from sweeping down her own allies in her fever-pace. But they were disappearing from her side so fast that it soon didn’t matter. The steel of Ferelden armor was vanishing behind a wall of writhing dark flesh.

She was terrified, more than she had ever been. For her own life, for Ferelden, for her mother and sister back home in Lothering if she failed to protect them here. And yet… she felt immense strength coursing through her veins. Her sword was… so light, all of a sudden. As if made of aluminum rather than steel. She forgot about her armor, her exhaustion. There was only the darkspawn all around her. An ogre, its heavy footsteps shaking the ground enough to destabilize her balance as it roared past her. Just slightly, but enough that she had to raise her sword quickly to parry the blow of a nearby hurlock.

Where was the signal?! Where were Loghain’s men?! Her brother?!

Light as her body felt, she was outnumbered. She had to step carefully over the corpses of men she had only just come to know. The man who had attempted to charm her around the bonfire only earlier that day. 

But there was no time to think, to search. There were only the darkspawn.

And then a voice:

“RETREAT!”

She whipped around at the sound of her captain’s voice, meeting his wild eyes with her own. “Captain?!”

“Loghain has called the retreat!” the captain ordered.

“But the king! The king is still fighting! And the Grey Wardens!”

The captain grabbed her by the arm, the pupils of his eyes so dilated they were almost entirely black. “The king is dead. The Grey Wardens have fallen. The battle is lost. Run, Hawke.”

Her heart sank into her feet. It was all too much, too fast. She had to fight, she had to run, she had to cut down all of the darkspawn that had made it past her, so that they could not make it to…

“CARVER!”

Hawke swung her blade again, slicing clean through a genlock grunt. Her brother was somewhere on the battlefield, all the way on the other side of it, and only getting further. And now dozens, hundreds of darkspawn stood between herself and her brother. 

The energy that had infused her at the beginning of the battle was still within her now, a fire in her veins that scalded at her flesh and muscle for every moment she was _not_ in motion, not raging through the battlefield and tearing down every enemy in her path. It was empowering, but painful. This was not the first time this had happened, but never in all of her conflicts with wandering bandits and wild beasts had it burned inside of her so fiercely. Never had the fever of battle raged so intensely.

Across the writhing hordes she saw the glint of torchlight against the armor of the Teyrn’s receding forces, but not all had turned away from the battle. Those on the edges of the company were making contact with the Darkspawn that had pushed through the king’s scattered lines, keeping them occupied while the rest of the force pushed back across Ostagar’s main bridge.

Hawke’s legs surged underneath her, the darkspawn lines breaking under her sword, under her boots. She ran, ran, ran, faster than her armor should have allowed, cutting down the grunts in her path and dodging the blows of any enemy larger, ducking the swing of an ogre’s huge fist and cringing as it collided with the armor of her Captain instead, who had attempted to follow in the path of carnage she made. But she could not afford to care. Her commanding officer was unimportant compared to her brother.

She felt a sting in her side, retaliating with the pommel of her sword to knock down its source, then ignoring it.

And then she was there, scanning through the faces of the retreating forces, listening for her brother’s whiny voice. But they were all wearing helmets, not looking for her.

A sword came down just behind her, and she heard the gurgle of a dying genlock as she spun to find the source of the blade.

“How did you get here, Sister?!”

“Carver! Why are you still here?! You should be running!”

“Why, jealous of how many darkspawn I’ve killed?”

“I-- yes, of course, that is what is on my mind instead of saving your stupid ass. Now let’s go!”

She grabbed him by the arm, hauling him away from the hurlock that was about to plant its blade in his unprotected back, even as he resisted her, pulling out of her grip and pointing down at the wound in her side.

“Naiyah, you’re bleeding!”

She hadn’t realized it. The sting had been a blade, one she hoped had not given her the Blight. But she did not feel it. No pain, no blood loss. There was only the running, the fighting.

“Don’t worry about me; let’s get out of here!”

She grabbed his arm again, shoving him ahead of her, behind the receding army, but paused when she heard the beating of enormous wings, a sound that would chill the blood of any warrior facing darkspawn. Could it be? Could it truly be an Archdemon?

She turned to look, still holding her greatsword at the ready, but she was not relieved when she saw a giant eagle descend upon the Tower of Ishal, rather than a Blighted dragon. But it seemed entirely uninterested in the fleeing human forces. And there was not time enough to puzzle over its presence.

Naiyah merely turned back toward her brother, swinging her sword into its hook on the back of her armor. And then they were going across the bridge, the fires and plague of the darkspawn surging behind them. But the Hawkes were fast. They were leaving the battle behind. The Grey Wardens, the king… the possibility for glory.

As the fires of Ostagar faded into the distance behind them, so did the flames burning through Hawke’s body. There was only the sound of her feet against the stone and dirt, the clanging of her brother’s armor next to her.

Finally she was forced to slow down, to look down at the wound. A dagger jab, done from something that had managed to get through the wide arcs of her huge blade. Not as bad as a sword, but deep enough. 

She was about to bandage it when she felt a hand at her side, and followed it up to the kind-looking face of a white-haired elderly mage woman, who frowned down at the source of the blood. “You have come very far from the battle with such a grievous wound, child.”

“I’m a very strong girl,” Hawke joked, watching as the mage’s hands began to glow, just like her father’s had every time Naiyah had come home after a particularly nasty street brawl. “You’re from the Circle, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I will be on my way there, soon. But I will stay as long as I can to tend to the injured.”

From behind her, Naiyah heard her brother quip, “oh, what a relief, a mage who _isn’t_ an apostate, for once.”

Naiyah rolled her eyes, focusing on the mage. “Ignore him. I would be grateful for your aid.”

The mage nodded, bringing her hands back to the wound, still glowing. She seemed confused for a moment as she looked at it, her brows furrowing intently. But she said nothing about it before she straightened, smiling. “Your injury has closed. You are lucky-- despite all of the darkspawn blood on your person, none of it seems to have reached you.”

“Ah yes, incredible luck, which puts me at the center of a losing battle against unholy beasts, led by a paranoid traitor,” Naiyah paused, reaching into her armor for her coin purse. “Thank you for your help, uh…”

“Wynne. And there’s no need to pay me. We mages of the Circle are here to tend to the soldiers.”

“And yet I see you haven’t tended to your own wounds,” Hawke pointed out, gesturing to the woman’s twisted ankle.

Wynne’s lips twitched at that, but she elected to ignore it. “I will be fine. And if not, if it is my purpose to die here, then I know that I will have died ensuring that what is left of King Cailan’s army is able to return to their homes.”

She smiled at Hawke, and then at Carver, who was still bonding with the soldiers who had been with him in battle, reveling at their compliments. To them, he certainly must have _seemed_ a hero, cutting through the darkspawn charge with arcs of his huge blade. But none of them had _really_ seen the horror of the Blight. They had not been at the front of the battle, the middle of the nightmare. 

“And where are you and your brother returning to?”  
“Lothering,” Hawke admitted. “Not far north. I… only pray that we are able to reach it before the horde does.”

Wynne patted her shoulder. “Then you should not tarry here. I wish you luck, child.”

She nodded, turning back to her brother and continuing to urge him forward. “Come on, hero, it’s time to go home.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They arrived back home just after the Blight’s newest ripple. Refugees were flooding into the village at an increasing rate, all of the farmers whose faith that the king’s army would save them had come to an abrupt end as darkspawn poured out of Ostagar.

There was not space for them all, not tents for them all, and certainly not food for them all. Children searched for mothers that would never return to them, old women begged on the streets for spare coin to spend at corrupt merchants. It was a pitiful sight. 

As she came in view of the refugee camp, Naiyah heard barking and saw her Mabari hound, Muffin, come barrelling towards her. For a moment, she got a flash of the Ash Warriors’ hounds charging the lines of darkspawn, but shook it away just in time for Muffin to come to a halt in front of her, leaning his heavy body against her exhausted legs, obviously looking to get pettings.

And she would not deny them. “Oh yes, who’s a good boy! You are! Have you been listening to Bethany? Have you been helping Mother?”

Muffin wagged his little stub of a tail wildly, and Naiyah surmised that probably meant that he’d happily been kept busy.

“Oh, you nasty brute, you were _supposed_ to be helping!” she heard Bethany shout, and couldn’t restrain her smile. It was good to be home again.

Her sister came around the corner at a dead run, stopping when she saw her siblings. “Oh, Maker’s blessing! Naiyah! Carver!” She hurried to embrace them, relief clear on her face. “We’ve heard such awful things from the soldiers and refugees. And they said that you were near the front… Mother was worried you would not come back. I told her that was ridiculous, of course. It would take more than a few darkspawn to stop MY sister…”

She looked down at Muffin. “And I suppose your master coming home is why you suddenly abandoned your hunting mission?” She rubbed his muzzle affectionately. “He was supposed to be using his big nose to find a little girl’s lost doll.”

Muffin barked up at her, then ran off, presumably to continue his mission.

Naiyah watched the dog disappear into the abandoned farmlands, then straightened and turned to Bethany. “We have to move, Sister. The darkspawn are coming. With the king’s forces devastated and Loghain’s marching back to Denerim, there’s absolutely nothing to stop them from tearing right through Lothering. I’m good, but if I could stop an entire army, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

Bethany blanched, frowning out at the refugees. “We can’t just _leave_ them, Naiyah. They _just_ got to safety.”

Carver pushed past them, calling over his shoulder, “there won’t _be_ anywhere safe, soon. They either move or they die.”

Bethany looked back at Naiyah, who shrugged. “That. yes.” She patted her sister on the shoulder, then accompanied her back through the growing refugee camp, passing the Chantry just as Muffin came running back to them with a wet, dirty doll in his mouth.

“Oh, what a good boy!” Naiyah cooed, scratching him behind the ears. “Now let’s go find that toy’s owner, alright?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bethany would not leave until the refugees did. And the Hawke family was not leaving without Bethany. So here they were, still in Lothering, just waiting for disaster to reach them.

The quiet was maddening. After the battle-fever that had pulsed through her in Ostagar, Naiyah couldn’t bear standing still. While Leandra hurried to gather enough supplies for the journey, Carver bragged to the village girls about how many darkspawn he’d killed, and Bethany helped the Chantry Sisters begin to evacuate refugees, Naiyah occupied herself with eliminating beasts lurking on the edge of town, the scavengers growing monstrous on corpseflesh. Anything to distract herself from the waiting. 

She cut down yet another giant spider, then swiped a gob of its venom off of her armor with disgust. After digging her hands into the crushed abdomens to search for undigested coins, she turned back toward the village, passing a pair of middle-aged women leaning against a hut’s wall.

“Did you hear? They say _Grey Wardens_ killed the king!”

Hawke felt a lump form in her throat as she passed the gossiping villagers, trying to continue looking nonchalant, not obviously listening.

“But they’re heroes! Warriors against the Blight!”

“Maybe that’s just what they want us to think.”

Naiyah grimaced. So that was Teyrn Loghain’s official story, huh? Revolting. And to think she’d thought of him as a hero. 

But starting fights now would just get her labeled as treasonous. She was already halfway toward deserter, so it wasn’t that much of a stretch. Better not to make waves, no matter how much the blatant lies disgusted her.

But as she passed out of earshot of the gossip, she instead came into view of a huge cage at the edge of town, housing a massive, dark-skinned, stonefaced… man? No, there was something _off_ about him…

“Impressive, isn’t he?” a drunk sitting next to the cage mumbled to her. “That thing’s a vicious murderer, one of those Qu.. Quari…”

“Qunari? The horned beasts at war with Tevinter?”

“Yeah, them things.” He hiccupped. “But this one don’t got any! Weird, innit?”

Hawke nodded. “Yes… weird.” _And very cool. He looks like he could be handy with a sword. I wonder if I could spring him out… do I know anyone who can pick locks?_

But her thoughts were interrupted by the drunk’s continued rambling.

“And this one’s the worst of the lot. Murdered a whole family just tryin’ to help him! Can you believe that! So the Revered Mother, she says… we’re gonna leave him here for the darkspawn to take. And good riddance! Better him than me!” He began to cackle, and Naiyah turned away from him, frowning back at the Qunari warrior.

“Nothing to say, big guy?”

“No.”

“Wonderful.”

She turned away, musing over his use as a decoy, then began to make her way back to the Chantry, looking around for Bethany. She found her chatting with a red-headed Sister who had a charming smile and a slight Orlesian accent. But the red-headed woman smiled and headed back into the building as Naiyah approached, poking her sister in the back with a giant spider leg she’d pulled off of one of her kills. “Hey, Mother says supper will be ready soon.”

Bethany turned, realizing what she was being touched with and smacking it away with a disgusted expression. “Eugh, Naiyah! How am I supposed to eat after seeing you with _that_?!”

“What? It’s harmless. Basically a crab leg.”

“Not even remotely the same. Though I do wonder if it would smell the same if you cooked it…”

“Ah, I _knew_ you were the cool twin. I did it to Carver earlier and he screamed and cut it in half with his sword. Such a waste of perfectly good spider leg.” She grinned, swinging the leg out in front of her. “Hey… should I eat it?”

“No.”

“Man, you really convinced me. Can’t believe you’re making me do this!”

When they got back to the house, Naiyah stuck part of the leg into the soup pot to boil and then went back outside and used the other part to play fetch with Muffin.

“I feel so awful for the new refugees,” she heard Bethany complain to their mother through the open doorway. “They say some highwaymen have taken residence just outside the town and are demanding a whole _ten silvers_ just to let anyone through! The brutes!”

Naiyah threw the spider leg again and watched Muffin shoot after it. “We should totally kill them.”

“ _Naiyah!”_ Leandra scolded.

“What?”

“We are not ruthless murderers!”

Naiyah shrugged. “Alright, alright, no murder. I’ll just _almost_ kill them.”

Before Leandra could argue, Carver came home from his own patrol, narrowly avoiding the dog barreling past him with a giant spider leg in its mouth.

“Mother, is supper ready? I’m starving.”

“Hard day trying to seduce girls with your combat prowess?” Naiyah interrupted. “Get any bites?”

“Not when my sister keeps showing up covered in ichor and waving around spider legs.”

“I _know_ , they just couldn’t keep their hands off of me!”

She laughed at Carver’s glare and walked back inside to the soup pot to pull out the now-cooked leg, giving it a sniff. “Oh, Bethany! It really _does_ smell just like crab!”

Leandra pushed them both toward the table, shaking her head. “That’s _enough_ , children. How can you make jokes at a time like this?!”

“Now’s the _perfect_ time to make jokes,” Naiyah argued, dropping into her seat at the table, then cracking the leg in half and digging out the flesh with her finger. “The whole world’s a joke.”

Leandra appeared to ignore that last comment, collapsing into her chair. “We’ve finally been able to stay in one place long enough to form a life, only to have to leave because of _beasts_ pouring out of the wilds!” She sighed, staring blankly down at her bowl of (spider-tainted) soup. “I wish your father were here. He would know what to do.”

“ _I’m_ here, Mother,” Naiyah consoled, dropping the humor for the moment, even as she fought the urge to spit out the spider meat she’d just put into her mouth.

“Yes… you’re… you’re right. Your father would want us to do our best to help the town that has taken such good care of us. I just… there will be so much we have to leave behind…”

“It doesn’t matter, Mother,” Bethany attempted, taking her hand across the table. “We have each other.”

Leandra smiled weakly. “Of course. I have my beautiful children. I’m so… proud of all of you. I just… couldn’t bear to lose any of you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next day, Naiyah was plenty prepared to go beat some fear of the Maker into the highwaymen’s thick skulls, only to find out that apparently someone else had done it for her.

According to a relieved refugee, a group of three adventurers had run them out, two of them as well-armored as the king’s soldiers had been.

 _Interesting,_ Naiyah thought, resting the flat of her blade against her shoulder and looking out at the ruined road. _Now who could that have been?_

She shrugged and returned to town to help the refugees who _could_ leave do so. The more of them got on the road ahead of her, the better she felt. And the more they worked, the more they heard about the adventurers in town. How they’d made potions for the Elder to distribute, “convinced” the sniveling weasel of a merchant to lower his prices, and even made traps and poisons for the farmers who remained in the town. They seemed like real goody-two-shoes.

She didn’t get a glimpse of the adventurers herself until she was working with Bethany to carry water from the well to the Chantry. Just out of the corner of her eye, a flash of ginger hair in the late afternoon sunlight. She paused, staring at the woman, who was gazing curiously up at the imprisoned Qunari, listening as the busty, dark-haired woman at her side was talking.

Bethany followed her gaze, shifting the water buckets in her grip. “Is that woman… an apostate? She’s so… obvious; I can’t believe none of the Templars have caught her!”

Naiyah shook her head, turning away. “I think the Templars in Lothering are too busy pissing in their trousers to worry about apostates, Sister. You could probably light your hands up right now and no one would notice. Also…” she stepped closer to Bethany, lowering her voice. “Those adventurers… they’re Grey Wardens.”

Bethany gasped, about to turn around, but was stopped by Naiyah’s arm. “What, really?! How do you know?!”

“Shhhh… Loghain is spreading word that the Wardens killed the king. But I saw the battle myself-- I _know_ it’s not true. So I don’t want to incriminate them when they’ve done so much to help. But I saw them in Ostagar. Not the mage, but the other two.”

“Do you think Carver knows?”

Naiyah shook her head. “No… he was in a different part of camp.” She sighed, pushing forward. “I guess I’d better tell him, or he’ll just accuse me of keeping secrets later.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After that, the Hawke family was far too busy to pay any attention to the Wardens’ exploits in the town. They had to pack what they could carry, sell or give away what they could not. Get as many refugees as possible bandaged and on their feet, whether through magic or not. For a while, she even forgot about the Wardens entirely, until she noticed that the cage on the edge of town was empty.

When she saw it, she paused in her job of chopping wood for the Chantry’s fires, turning to the Revered Mother and asking, “what happened to the Qunari?”

The Revered mother pursed her lips disapprovingly. “A… treasured Sister convinced me to offer the creature mercy, as one of the Maker’s children. That he can pay for his crimes in the service of the Grey Wardens, rather than with his life.” She paused. “I am still uncertain it was a good choice.”

Naiyah forced a gasp. “Whaaat? _Grey Wardens?!_ Here?! I thought they all died in Ostagar!”

Bethany rolled her eyes, but said nothing.

“No, a pair of them escaped,” the Mother answered, apparently oblivious to Naiyah’s acting. “If the Maker wills, they will be able to stop this Blight.” But she pursed her lips again, folding spare blankets with renewed vigor. “Of course, it was only after I handed over the keys to the cage that I discovered that same respected Sister had started a brawl in the tavern.”

Naiyah barked a laugh. “Oh, I wish I had seen _that!_ Which sister was this?!”

The Revered Mother glared at her. “Sister Leliana, if you must know.”

“Who is…?”

She sighed. “You would know her better if you ever visited the Chantry, Naiyah Hawke. But until recently I have seen precious little of you.”

Naiyah shrugged. “What can I say? I suppose I prefer _living_ in the Maker’s world to sitting in some old building and _thinking_ about it.”

The Revered Mother opened her mouth to argue, then closed it, apparently stumped. But then she chuckled, admitting, “you _sound_ like Sister Leliana.”

Naiyah and Bethany laughed, grabbing the blankets and firewood they had been gathering and bringing them into the Chantry to hand over to the hardworking Sisters.

Her burden gone, Naiyah stretched, yawning as she pushed open the Chantry’s doors. “I’m not sure whether I should take that as a compliment or--”

She froze, her eyes on a group of torches in the distance.

“Hmmm… more refugees?” Bethany suggested, already walking toward the flickering lights.

“Yes… refugees…” Naiyah muttered, even as the torches seemed to multiply before her eyes.

But then the screams reached them. The last ripple before the true wave crashed down upon them. Screams, distant at first, then growing closer, louder, more panicked.

“DARKSPAWN!”

Both Bethany and Naiyah were in motion long before the screams could be heard as words, rushing back to their house, their mother, their brother.

And then it was chaos, the screams, the blood, and there was no more time to waste.

“EVERYONE RUN!” Naiyah shouted, for all of Lothering to hear. “Forget your belongings; preserve your lives!”

She could not afford to listen to the footsteps behind her, the Templars rushing out of the Chantry… but not to kill darkspawn. They merely disappeared. And without them, with so many lives on the line it suddenly no longer mattered that Bethany was an apostate. Magic surged through her sister’s fingers, freezing, shocking, burning all that stood between them and their family.

Leandra and Carver met them in the center of town, the Hawke family home already burning behind them. “We’re too late!”

“We have to get everyone out!” Bethany argued.

“Okay, okay, we’ll stay as long as we can. But the moment there’s too many for us to handle, we’re _leaving._ You understand me, Sister?!” Naiyah shouted, even as she slung her sword out from her back.

“Good! For Lothering!” Carver shouted, already charging into enemy lines.

“Carver, stop charging in like that!” Naiyah chastised, following him in with her own blade.

“Why?! _You_ do it all the time!”

She could not argue with that. She could only focus on stemming the tide, reducing the number of darkspawn that could reach the refugee camp, hoping it would buy them enough time to run. But she also knew that her mother would not leave her children behind, so she would stay although she herself was defenseless.

“Muffin! Stay with Mother!” she ordered her Mabari, even as she cut the head off another hurlock. Muffin barked the affirmative, dropping into a protective crouch at Leandra’s feet.

Naiyah, Carver, and Bethany just focused on holding the beasts back, holding them back, holding them back, but they could not hold the horde’s lines alone. They were gradually getting pushed back, past the Chantry, into the fragile tents of the refugee camp.

Fortunately, they were only seeing genlocks and hurlocks, not the alphas or ogres that had crashed through the lines at Ostagar. But they knew that they were running out of time.

Finally, Naiyah shouted over her shoulder, “Mother, we _have_ to go! Anyone who _could_ have escaped has done so already. If we don’t join them now, we won’t get the chance to!”

Leandra nodded, and the siblings broke away from the battle, running as fast as their legs would take them out of the burning village. But by then, the darkspawn had completely flanked them. If any refugees had escaped, they had long lost sight of them.

They hurried through the hills, thankful for the rough terrain for breaking up the enemy forces enough for the siblings to knock them out of the way. But they couldn’t keep this up forever, even with the battle-fever coursing through Naiyah’s veins again. They ran north, then east, and still, there were darkspawn. Too many for Naiyah to fight _and_ protect her mother and siblings. They had nowhere left to turn.

Then Bethany, coming to a halt. “Wait… where are we _going?_ ”

“Away from the darkspawn, where else?” Carver shot back.

“And _then_ where? We can’t just _wander_ , aimlessly.”

“Well why not? I always wanted to wander aimlessly,” Naiyah quipped.

Leandra ignored her, seeming lost in her own thoughts. And then… she suggested they go to Kirkwall. Where they had family.

Bethany was aghast. “There’s a _lot_ of Templars in Kirkwall, Mother.”

But since no one had any better suggestions, to Kirkwall it was. If, as Carver pointed out, they survived long enough to even get to Gwaren and get a ship to the Free Marches. 

And of course, as soon as they had a destination, more darkspawn appeared. They were still just more grunts, easy to slice through, but it meant an end to their conversation. But they were not alone on the battlefield. As Naiyah brought her sword down on another hurlock skull, she caught a glimpse of blood splattered on ginger hair and wondered, for a moment, if she had caught up to the Grey Warden woman.

But no, the woman she saw and heard desperately striking down darkspawn was not the same as the one she had seen first in Ostagar, then in Lothering. She was not quite so tall, nor her hair quite so long. And her eyes did not hold the same gentleness, though perhaps that was because she was locked in combat protecting an injured templar. One with a stab wound in about the same place Naiyah had had one.

Naiyah was still rather impressed when said non-Grey Warden warrior decided to _punch_ the offending hurlock into submission before slicing its head off.

She helped the mystery woman clear out the last of the darkspawn group, but Wesley, as the woman referred to him, was past help. Especially since, just as Bethany moved forward to try to heal his wound, he jumped up and demanded, “Apostate! Keep your distance.”

Bethany drew to a halt, suddenly disgusted. “Ugh, the Maker has a sense of humor. Darkspawn and now a Templar? I thought they all abandoned Lothering?”

“The Darkspawn are clear in their intent. But the mage is _always_ unknown. The Order dictates--”

Okay, now Naiyah was disgusted, too. Some Templars were respectable enough, but she _hated_ when they got all high and mighty on her. Unfortunately, the latter far outnumbered the former. And this one, even at his wife’s urgings, seemed not to get the hint.

“The Order dictates--”

He stepped toward Bethany, and Naiyah instantly moved into his way, drawing up to her full height and glaring directly into his eyes. Challenging him. She did not care if he was a possible arm against the darkspawn. She _would_ kill him if he threatened her sister.

Fortunately, his ginger-haired wife, Aveline Vallen, as she introduced herself, was finally able to talk some sense into him. 

After more arguing, Naiyah decided that Aveline, at least, was likeable. Especially when she said, “we fell to betrayal, not the darkspawn. This arm of the darkspawn will _not_ have the same advantage.”

It summarized her own experience in the battle perfectly. Even so many days after it had happened, Naiyah was still haunted by the thought of how differently the battle would have gone if Loghain’s men had charged, like they were supposed to.

But they didn’t have time to dwell on such thoughts. Though she wasn’t excited about going directly back south, she also would rather take an arm of the horde than the main body. South it was.

More darkspawn. Many, too many. She was happy to have another warrior at her back, even as Carver revelled in his battle skills. But he was still so young. So impulsive. He was strong, yes, but he wasn’t as _fast_ as Naiyah. And the proof of that came when they reached the clearing at the top of the hill.

The dust and smoke all around them made it difficult to see. She _felt_ the ogre coming before she saw it, felt its footsteps pound against the packed dirt, giving them time to duck out of the way of its charge. And then it turned toward Mother, and Carver.

“Soulless bastard!” her brother shouted, charging it, sword in hand.

“Carver, NO!”

The ogre lifted him in its hand like a child’s toy, throwing him against the ground once, twice, again, again, each toss punctuated by the sickening crunch of his bones.

For a brief moment, Naiyah Hawke’s world stopped.

She saw her brother crumpled on the ground. His angular face shattered. His eyes shut, his snide, arrogant mouth… completely silent. And that was the first moment in all eighteen years she’d been taking care of her twin siblings that Naiyah had completely, truly... 

Failed.

From the moment the twins were born and her father was laying her tiny, fragile brother into her lap and making her promise that she would protect them.

_They’re going to rely on you, Naiyah. You’re a big sister, now. You have to keep them safe._

Failed.

_Don’t you dare let those wretched creatures take him!_

Failed.

But there was no time to grieve. The ogre, the thing, the monster that _killed_ her brother-- her brave, proud brother, who just _earlier that day_ was _bragging_ about how many darkspawn he killed-- was still standing.

Her throat filled with bile, but her arms and legs were moving. She charged the ogre herself, dodging its fist, just like she had in Ostagar, then thrust her greatsword through it once, twice, trusting Muffin to keep her mother safe. She had to do this. She would not be complete until she did this.

She felt like her body was splitting in half, a tear that began in her heart and spread outwards, but she was moving. Striking.

The ogre fell, and yet she did not stop to celebrate it. There was nothing to celebrate now. She merely charged across the battlefield, crashing into a trio of darkspawn that had chosen Bethany as their new target.

 _You will not take anything else from me,_ Naiyah thought, bringing her sword down again, again, again, again, until all three were dead, and then again with those in front of her mother.

Blood splattered everywhere. She did not care. Beauty was the furthest concept from her mind, until finally the field was clear. She stood in a pool of gore, blood. Much of it from the darkspawn. But some of it, enough of it… from her brother.

She dropped her sword, letting it clatter against the ground as she ran to her brother’s crumpled body, where her mother was already pleading for him to get up. That he was fine.

“I’m sorry, Mistress,” Aveline consoled. Then, quieter, gentler, “...your son is gone.”

“No! These things will not take Carver…”

Naiyah dropped into a crouch, her insides twisting as she looked between her brother and her mother. “Carver… was a hero, mother.”

“I don’t _want_ a hero!” Leandra snapped, her eyes cold as she looked up at her eldest child over her son’s corpse. “I want my _son!_ How could you let him charge off like that?! Your little brother! _My_ little boy…”

Naiyah closed her eyes, clenching her fists. She _didn’t_ let it happen. She would never have _let_ it happen! But...Carver had never _listened_ to her, anyway.

_But she hadn’t tried hard enough._

She could not have stopped her brother.

_Couldn’t she have?_

He was a grown man. He made his own choices.

_But wasn’t it her responsibility to save him from his choices?_

It all happened so fast.

_But she could have been faster._

Her mind was swirling, battling with itself. Paralyzing her. Only Bethany’s voice pulled her out of it.

“But we can’t stay here.” Her voice cracked, tears forming in her eyes. “Carver wouldn’t want his sacrifice to be meaningless.”

Naiyah swallowed down the bile, taking the moments offered by Ser Wesley’s prayer to put herself back together. To pick her sword off of the ground. 

Carver would want them to stay together, to keep moving. But would he? What _would_ Carver want? She’d _never_ understood what Carver wanted. ...But she had to _say_ he would because she couldn’t… she couldn’t _fail_ in her promise to keep Carver safe only to fail in her promise to her father to keep her mother safe, to keep her sister safe, she couldn’t keep failing, she had to keep moving. She didn’t have time to cry, to weep, to grieve. 

She had to fight. Fight. Fight. Survive. 

And she did, even as more darkspawn appeared. She relied on Bethany to take down some, but there was no end to them. She didn’t know what to do.

And then a shadow fell over the clearing.


	2. Esfera Cousland- Ancient Magics

If you were to ask her, she would say that it was love that made her a Grey Warden. She loved Ferelden, and so wanted to protect it from its newest, greatest threat. Her love for her friends that drove her ever onward. And, before all else, her family’s love for her-- the force of which neither betrayal nor darkspawn hordes could overcome. Their love had saved her life. And now, as far as she knew, she was the only one left to love them in return.

She allowed herself to look back one last time at the blazing ruin of her former life. Her family’s sword and shield felt heavy on her back as Castle Highever burned behind her, almost everything she knew and loved within it. Her parents. Nan. The elven servants. Ser Gilmore. How many lives had been sacrificed just so that she alone could escape?

The fires glowed bright as the midday sun through Highever’s night sky, scalding their way into the backs of her eyelids, into her memory. 

She was the only one left. She was alone.

But then Duncan’s voice was cutting through the distant screaming, reminding her to keep moving. That she had promised to be a Grey Warden. There was no turning back now.

“I have nothing to turn back to,” Esfera answered. But she was clenching her fist tightly, so tightly that the metal studs of her armored gloves were cutting into the leather, cutting deeply enough the reach the skin within.

Vengeance. Anger. Hatred. All emotions raging within her now, and all emotions her family had taught her to reject, resist, control. All emotions that led people away from the road of goodness, love, heroism that they had encouraged her to pursue all of her life.

At her side, Cookie whined, pushing his muzzle into her hand until her knuckles relaxed and her fingers found their way into his coarse, familiar fur. 

His persistence gave her the strength to turn away from it all, to follow Duncan’s footsteps down the beaten dirt road away from the comfortable, safe life she had known. And to think, only earlier that day she had been desperate to let it all go, to leave it behind, to fight for honor so that she could return to it, better than she had been. That was back when it had been a choice. When there was something to return to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She was numb to everything as they moved south, toward the Grey Wardens, toward the darkspawn horde that would shape her fate. She did not taste Duncan’s bland rabbit stew. She did not hear his voice as he guided her down the imperial highway. Surely the words reached her, since her sword was ready for any bandits and highwaymen that attempted to make their journey difficult. But her mind was not in it. Her heart was not in it. Enemies fell before her, but she remembered no faces. Even meeting the king in Ostagar, she knew that she responded with as much grace as possible, thanking him for his concern, his promise to march his forces northward to demand justice as soon as they addressed the darkspawn in Ostagar. But such grace was the result of her mother’s years of careful training, trained just as deeply as swordplay into her muscles. So much so that it governed her body long before her distant mind could react. 

Her smile ghosted across her face with no joy behind it. Her waist bent into a bow before her mind even acknowledged that the person deserved a bow. Despite all of her groaning, of sneaking out into the courtyard to train with Ser Gilmore, she had truly become the noble lady her mother had wanted her to be, so deeply that it arose in the moments when her mind was not present at all.

 _Find Alistair_ _when you are ready_ , Duncan had said. She had walked through the camp, finding Ash Warriors, Mabari hounds, Templars, Circle Mages, an imprisoned deserter, and her fellow Grey Warden recruits, until all she could afford to sell she had sold to the quartermaster and all she could do to help had been done.

So she wandered toward the northern edge of the ruins, to where King Cailan’s soldiers had pointed her. She didn’t know what this Alistair looked like, but she had been assured by most she had asked that she “would know him when she met him.”

She understood what they meant when she made her way to the most elevated section of the ruins and saw a man in armor talking to a mage. She was certain that the mage, by virtue of the Circle-emblazoned robes he was wearing, was not the Grey Warden she had been sent to find, which meant that the impatient-looking young man in splintmail armor must be Alistair. 

“What is it now? Haven’t Grey Wardens asked more than enough of the Circle?”

“I simply came to deliver a message from the revered mother, ser mage. She desires your presence.”

Esfera could tell that the young man’s level of restraint and decorum was a deliberate effort, a facade that was rapidly falling.

“What her Reverence ‘desires’ is of no concern to me! I am busy helping the Grey Wardens-- by the king’s orders, I might add!”

“Should I have asked her to write a note?

 _And so ends the decorum_ , Esfera thought as she approached, looking with interest at the young man. Blond-- no-- strawberry blond-- hair pushed back out of his face. Wide, wide brown eyes, almost dog-like, but pleasant. Although he certainly seemed to be focused on keeping his expression light-hearted rather than antagonistic. He reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t think of who. Or perhaps she just thought he was handsome. She wasn’t sure. 

“Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner!”

“Yes, I was harassing **you** by delivering a message.”

“Your glibness does you no credit.”

“Here I thought we were getting along so well. I was even going to name one of my children after you… the grumpy one.”

Esfera heard herself snort at the lousy attempt at a comeback, enough of a sound to cause Alistair’s gaze to flick toward her just as the mage’s patience ran out.

“Enough! I will speak to the woman if I must! Get out of my way, fool!”

The mage pushed past her in disgust, muttering under his breath the whole way. Alistair watched him go, then, finally, turned to Esfera, who raised an eyebrow at him.

“Alistair, I presume?”

He seemed confused for a second. “Wait… we haven’t met, have we? I don’t suppose you happen to be another mage.”

Esfera felt her lips twitch upwards again. “You see a lot of mages walk around with swords and shields?”

“Ah. Yes. Good point. So you are… wait, I think I recognize you. You’re Duncan’s newest recruit, the one from Highever. I’m, well, I’m Alistair, as you clearly know. And you are…?”

“Esfera Cousland,” she replied automatically.

“Good, good.” He started to step toward the stairs back down to camp, then stopped, looking back at her. “Wait, _Cousland_? So you’re nobility?”

Esfera’s smile twisted quickly into a frown. “I _was_.”

He realized his mistake immediately, his eyes widening as he took a step back. “Oh… oh, right. That’s… your family. For what it’s worth… I’m sorry about what happened to them.”

Esfera shrugged. “You are not responsible. Besides, I am a Grey Warden, now. Or, well, will be. Duncan sent me to fetch you. From your… incredibly important business.”

Alistair chuckled a bit, beginning to walk with her down the stairs toward camp. “Yes, very important. You see, I’m… a former Templar, before Duncan conscripted me. So the Revered Mother likes to hold it over the mage’s heads. Makes things very inconvenient for me, as you can imagine.” He shook his head. “You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together. It’s like a party: we could all stand in a circle and hold hands. **That** would give the darkspawn something to think about.”

Esfera smiled again, glancing at him out of the corners of her eyes. “It might work, if it’s a big enough circle.”

“Ah yes, now that’s a plan! You’re a natural.” He paused, his brow furrowing. “You know, it occurs to me that there aren’t many _women_ in the Grey Wardens.”

“Want more women Grey Wardens, do you?”

“Is that so bad? I’m not some drooling lecher or anything like… please stop looking at me like that.”

She hadn’t even realized she’d been looking at him skeptically, but it still made her laugh. It was an odd sound. When was the last time she had laughed?

“Well, I look forward to traveling with you, Alistair,” she said, attempting to return to her manners.

“You do? Huh… that’s a switch.”

He sounded genuinely surprised by the idea and she wasn’t entirely sure why. Well, aside from his antagonism toward the mage earlier, but he had already explained his situation. So why should _she_ not look forward to fighting at his side?

But by that time, they had returned to Duncan, and the conversation was over. Except for the part where Duncan chastised Alistair for antagonizing the mages. But it was light, and carried affection.

Off to business, then. Daveth and Ser Jory, her fellow Warden recruits, joined them at the Wardens’ fire, where they were all told of their mission into the Korcari Wilds to retrieve darkspawn blood and old treaties. And they were to be aided by Alistair.

Being the only woman in the group was not lost on Esfera thanks to the earlier commentary, but she said nothing about it. She merely accepted the mission with grace and patted her side for Cookie to follow her. But before she could take a step, Duncan stopped her. “You may leave your hound with me during your mission. I can think of some use for a Mabari. And… this _is_ intended as your first test.”

Esfera hesitated, looking down at her dog apprehensively. Until she found Fergus, Cookie was the only part of her family she had left, and he had been constantly by her side the entire journey south from Highever. To not have him there would be… uncomfortable.

But Duncan was right. This was a test for _her_ , not for her Mabari, and she would have to pass it on her own. She crouched, scratching Cookie behind the ears. “Stay here, boy. You protect Duncan, alright? And don’t bite anyone unless they _really_ deserve it.”

He barked happily, then walked back to Duncan and sat down at his feet, watching her go. It _was_ an odd feeling, but she would be alright. She was not alone, after all. She was with a Grey Warden.

~~~~~~~Alistair~~~~~~~~

He would describe his first emotion upon meeting Esfera Cousland as “panic.” An emotion that only intensified as he continually embarrassed himself every time he opened his mouth. Great job, Alistair. Meet a pretty girl and immediately talk about her **dead family**. He wanted to punch himself in the face.

He didn’t of course, just kept blabbering on, hoping he would make up for his mistakes instead of making more (another mistake in itself), mostly because he didn’t trust himself to not just… openly stare at her if he didn’t keep talking.

She was… so tall. Taller even than him (but only by a little!), a fact that was even more evident due to her perfect posture. She looked strong, too, by the way the leather armor was tight across her upper arms. And… lovely. Her orange hair was pulled only slightly away from her face, the rest of it tumbling in waves down her armor, catching the late afternoon sunlight and gleaming. She _looked_ noble, even before she’d told him her family name. Noble and strong and beautiful and--

_Stop staring, Alistair! You’re going to freak her out!_

So he’d joked. So he’d kept talking. Making everything worse, of course, but well… story of his life.

He’d been relieved when Duncan had given him the mission, because having something to _concentrate_ on was helpful for overcoming the panic. Guide the recruits through the darkspawn-infested Wilds. Don’t let them get killed. Got it. Just focus on that. He was the one in charge, after all. Which was weird and uncomfortable, so if he focused on that, it wouldn’t be so bad.

Of course, it so turned out that he barely needed to worry about being the one in charge. He hardly had to say anything, so easily did Esfera take the reins of their little adventuring band, almost immediately upon entering the woods and getting attacked by a small pack of wolves. Ser Jory seemed too nervous to do anything _besides_ take orders, and Daveth too impatient with him. Alistair had been about to say something, but before he even had, Esfera had snapped at them both.

“Would you knock it off?! We have a mission to do. How you feel about it is irrelevant.” She sheathed her sword, blowing a piece of hair out of her face in irritation. “Your reasons for joining the Wardens are your own. Can we just move on?”

They both fell silent, shocked at her discipline. Which was, honestly, impressive. She just had… one of those voices. The kind that made you want to say “yes ma’am,” “right away, ma’am.” Or maybe that was just Alistair.

She sighed and kept moving, grabbing her hair out of annoyance and braiding it as they went, a tight plait that kept it out of her way, especially once she tucked it into the inside of her armor. He wondered why she hadn’t done so before.

_You’re staring again._

But then they encountered the scouts, and he managed to bring his mind back to duty. To providing the injured soldier with bandages, sending him back to camp. He couldn’t help but notice the worried expression on Esfera’s face, though. Entirely different from the way Ser Jory looked, even as Alistair explained to him that they would be _fine_ , he can sense darkspawn.

By comparison, Esfera looked… distant. Scanning the swamps and trees for movement, not even focused on the men arguing. She was listening, based on how quickly she insisted that they keep moving, but only just.

“Something wrong?” he asked her as soon as they were on their way again.

“I… yes. The king told me that my brother was out in the Wilds, scouting. I will not deviate from our mission, I swear to you. But I still worry for him. He… does not yet know.”

“Ah. I, uh… really need to stop bringing it up, don’t I?”

She paused, biting her lip. “No, I--”

But she didn’t have the chance to finish, because of course, that was when the first group of darkspawn showed up. Alistair had sensed them, of course, but had determined that it was nothing their small group couldn’t handle.

And handle it they _did_.

The first one seemed to take Esfera by surprise, the way it crawled out of the ground, but she was _fast_ with that shield. It was up and out in front of her by the time the hurlock even brought its sword down, clanging against the grey iron uselessly. 

“Cursed creatures!” she shouted, putting her weight behind the shield and swinging it outwards, knocking the monster to the ground with a _crunch_ and then jabbing her sword into its skull with the same movement. She then whipped around to Daveth, her face already gore-splattered. “Daveth, what are you doing?! Is that bow for appearances?! Get the ones on the hill!”

“Alright, alright!”

Alistair almost wanted to laugh, but he was busy with his own darkspawn adversaries. He was still watching, of course, noting the archers on the hill falling to Daveth’s bow, and the hurlocks falling quickly to his, Jory’s, and Esfera’s swords. Well, actually, it seemed like most of them fell to Esfera’s _shield._ She used the thing like a battering ram, crashing her way through the field. 

It was, honestly, very impressive. Not really very _strategic_ , but certainly a demonstration of her strength. She was… well, he had no idea how he felt about her. But whatever it was, it was a good, good feeling.

“Not bad. You’ve never fought darkspawn before?” he asked the group, but mostly Esfera.

“Not a one,” she replied. “They’re even uglier than they look in my tutors’ books.” She leaned down to dig through the thing’s armor, pulling out a few silvers that had been embedded in its flesh. She grimaced as she looked at them. “I don’t know how they fight or think, so it’s best not to give them the chance to.”

“Hence the shield-smashing. Got it. Solid plan.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, then was distracted by Daveth tapping her on the back with the tip of his bow.

“Got one of the vials. You got another one?”

“Oh, yes. Here, some silvers for you.”

They switched, and Daveth seemed surprised by her generosity. “What, the Lady don’t want none for herself?”

“You just seem like you’d need it more than I do.”

“Why, because I’m a criminal?”

“No, I… well, you said yourself that Duncan got you off of the streets.”

He laughed. “Don’t worry none. But I do wonder, if you met me before this, what would you do, old teyrn’s daughter like yourself. Betcha think I’m better off on the gallows.”

Esfera’s mouth set into a thin line. “Laws usually exist for a reason. They keep order and safety. To be a criminal, I believe, is to breach that safety. Still, I am not unaware of the struggles of the common people. If a man is forced to steal a loaf of bread just to stay alive, then perhaps it is the merchant whose prices are too high that is the true criminal. But not all thievery is guiltless. Steal from a farmer’s stores and that family may not afford to buy seed for their crops next season. Steal a family heirloom and you have stolen the object’s true value by reducing it only to the price of its components.”

She took a breath, seeming to realize she sounded preachy. “So… I suppose it depends on the manner in which we met. If I were to catch you stealing, I would _have_ to have you arrested, because no one should believe that the system does _not_ protect what they own. However, depending on the nature of what you’ve stolen… I would not necessarily wish the gallows on you. Wishing to live is no crime.”

Daveth seemed aghast, wracking his brain for a proper response and failing at it. This didn’t seem to bother Esfera, who simply continued holding flasks to the still-oozing wounds in the darkspawn’s bodies.

Finally she was done, tucking each of the flasks into the small leather pack hooked onto her belt. She straightened, wiping her gloves on her pants. “Shall we continue? We still have not found the scrolls.”

She was looking at Alistair as she said this, and it took him a moment to realize why. Ah, yes. He was in charge. Official Grey Warden, after all.

“We’re almost there. There are a few more darkspawn groups in the way, but we’ll be fine.”

They continued onwards, also finding the bodies of some foolish Chantry missionaries, which Esfera did take the time to collect the personal effects from, but not long enough that Alistair had any urge to rush her. She said nothing as she did it, but he noticed. 

They forced their way through the darkspawn traps and took out the alpha that impeded their progress, finally reaching the ruins, only to find…

The chest was broken. Empty.

Esfera dragged her hands through the dust at the bottom of the cracked stone, only to shake her head.

“Are you a vulture, I wonder?”

All four of them looked toward the sudden female voice descending toward them through the ruins. Entirely different from Esfera’s. Judgy.

“A scavenger? Poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since picked clean?”

The woman who came toward them now was… well, certainly no noble lady. And barely clothed! How did those robes even stay put over her breasts?! Not that he was staring. No, she was beautiful, certainly, but in a dark way. Or maybe it was just the _magic_ he could sense on her. Or the way she was scowling at him. Combination of all of them.

“So what say you? Scavenger, or intruder?”

Esfera straightened, stepping closer toward the mysterious woman with an incredible lack of fear. Did she just not notice that this woman was a witch? 

“I am neither. I am here to retrieve the objects from that chest, which belonged to the Grey Wardens.”

The woman continued her scowling, her cryptic talk about watching them, wondering why they were there. But Alistair decided he’d better warn Esfera in case her nobility made her naive, not as wary as she should be.

“Don’t answer her. She looks Chasined. And that means others may be nearby.”

He’d attempted to be serious, but it didn’t seem as if the witch was going to respond in kind.

“Ooohh, you fear barbarians will _swoop_ down upon you!”

“Yes… swooping is bad...”

Esfera snorted, but Daveth piped up, “she’s a witch of the wilds, she is! She’ll turn us into toads!”

“Witch of the Wilds… Such idle fancies, those legends. Have you no minds of your own?” the woman turned to Esfera. “You there. Women do not frighten like little boys. Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine.”

_No don’t--_

But before the words were out, Esfera was stepping forward, a polite smile on her face. “I am Esfera. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Wait, really? Just like that, talking to a barbarian apostate mage like she was greeting nobility?! He was expecting snootiness. _Away with you, scum!_ That sort of thing. Not… manners. Also her complete lack of consideration for the danger she was in.

Fortunately, it seemed that Morrigan, as she introduced herself, was just as surprised by the manners as Alistair was. Stunned enough to admit that the scrolls were there no longer.

“Because _you_ probably stole them!” he piped up. “Because you’re some type of sneaky… witch-thief!”

_Not your best, Alistair._

Morrigan didn’t seem fazed. But she _did_ seem to have a good enough impression of Esfera to guide them to her mother, who apparently had the treaties. Which… evil barbarian witch? Bad enough. Evil barbarian witch’s _mother_? Definitely worse. But then there he was, following after his crazy recruit and the even crazier, definitely-evil random witch they’d encountered. He preferred the darkspawn, honestly.

~~~~~~~~Esfera~~~~~~~~~

Although she understood her companions’ apprehensiveness at meeting first Morrigan, then her mother, she saw no reason to be outright hostile. Those two women had what they needed, and were willing to give it to them. And if Morrigan’s mother was the nigh-immortal, fearsome witch that they claimed she was, all the more reason not to make an enemy of her. 

As Morrigan guided them out of the forest, well ahead of them and barely even looking back, Alistair leaned in close to Esfera, whispering, “are you _really_ not scared of them? Not even a little?”

Esfera blinked at him. “No? Should I be? They weren’t acting particularly threatening.”

“You’re not scared of mages?” he asked, sounding skeptical.

She sighed. “They are people. They can be dangerous, certainly, but so can anyone, with enough madness and the right tools. Powerful, yes, but they will die when stabbed all the same. So no, I am not frightened of mages. And you are trained as a Templar, are you not? Should _you_ be scared?”

“I’m not… I’m not scared!”

“Uh-huh.” But she still felt a grin ghost across her face. “I have met a few mages before. Circle mages, of course, no apostates. None have been particularly threatening. If they were to summon demons, _then_ I shall be concerned. But I will just have to deal with that when it occurs.”

“You have some… unique views on the world,” Alistair replied.

“Yes,” Esfera sighed. “Many tell me that.”

By then, they had reached the edge of the Wilds, the entrance to Ostagar now in sight, and Morrigan waiting for them not far away from it.

“There. You are back, and I am done with you. I would wish you well, but I don’t.”

And with that, she turned away from them, heading back through the trees. For a moment, Esfera thought she saw her human form actually disappear, but perhaps she was just exhausted. She did, however, see an eagle fly away from the place Morrigan had last been.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“There can be no turning back.”

Certainly, this was true for Esfera, who had nothing to return to anyway. No home, no family, no angry cook, handsome knight, or friendly servants. 

Certainly this was true for Daveth, who would have had nothing to look forward to save prison or execution had he not been saved by his conscription to the Grey Wardens.

But what of Ser Jory? He had a family. A home. A wife, with child. He was no lost soul with nothing to lose, like the others were. He had joined because he thought it the best way to protect his loved ones, but he had known so little. Was that foolish of him? To jump into an ancient, mysterious order of heroes without knowing the source of their power? The risk?

Perhaps. Perhaps it _was_ foolish of him. But that foolishness did not mean he had to die.

Esfera watched the blood soak through Ser Jory’s armor as he slid down the stone wall, Duncan’s blade in his gut no longer supporting his weight. She watched as the life left his body, the light leave his eyes. He had not deserved this.

He had only been frightened! And why shouldn’t he be, after watching the Joining ritual tear Daveth apart from the inside, right before his eyes? That he could fall right then and there, before ever even striking a single blow against the darkspawn as a true Grey Warden? He could have simply gone back to Redcliffe, served Ferelden against the Blight there.

But now he was dead, and Duncan was holding the Joining chalice to Esfera, sorrow on his face, insisting that she drink.

“What?! You-- you just _killed_ him! He had a family!”

“There can be no turning back,” Duncan insisted. He sounded sad about it, yes, and Ser Jory _had_ raised his sword first, yes, but only so that he didn’t have to drink!

“ _I_ will not turn back. But I also cannot turn back from the man you just _stabbed to death!_ ”

She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Alistair looking at her sympathetically. “You knew it was risky, so did he.”

“The risk of a ritual that will give us the power to sense darkspawn, yes! But the risk of a _sword in his gut_ probably didn’t occur to him!”

She huffed, snatching the chalice from Duncan and glaring at him. “It is not _right._ I don’t _care_ if it’s ‘the only way’ or ‘to protect the order’ or any of that nonsense. You should never have recruited him in the first place.”

“Are you… are you _scolding_ the _Warden-Commander?!”_ Alistair sounded incredulous, which was… fair. Admittedly, she was entirely out of line. Duncan had his reasons. The world _needed_ Grey Wardens, and they could not afford to let their secret out. But she simply could not accept that his death was the only way.

“I’m sorry. I should not question so much. I owe my life to the Wardens and I freely give it. But I did not wish the life of someone else. If I could have done something… anything to protect it… I wish I had.”

Duncan smiled sadly, only slightly, barely perceptible behind his facial hair. But she saw it. She knew that she was right. Even if she _was_ being insubordinate. But, well… technically she wasn’t a Grey Warden _yet._

She stared down into the murky, dark reddish-brown liquid at the bottom of the chalice, trying to stop thinking. If she _thought_ , she would hesitate. And she didn’t particularly want a sword in _her_ gut, either. It would be a waste of the hope that her parents had placed in her. To die without even attempting. To fight nothing, protect nothing. If the taint took her life, so be it.

“You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint, for the greater good.”

She grimaced, then tipped it back, hoping to miss her tongue entirely. No dice.

“From this moment forth, you are a…”

She didn’t actually get to hear the words “Grey Warden,” because all of her senses were already completely clouding over from the pain. Including taste, thankfully, but that gratitude didn’t last long. Her whole body was on fire, she was certain. Her eyes were bursting, her fingernails tearing out of their cuticles.

_A clouded sky, the light of the sun blacked out entirely by a gruesome beast. A dragon, certainly, but twisted, wrong. Veins visible where its scales should conceal them. Flesh where there should not be flesh. Scales both shining and darker than night all at once. And eyes, glowing, vicious, looking directly at her, pulling her in, sinking into the yellow, the darkness, the teeth. Terrifying, beautiful, twisted, wonderful, a voice, a voice she could hear, can almost understand…_

She didn’t feel herself hit the ground, didn’t know the exact moment she lost consciousness. It didn’t really matter. The dragon’s voice was still echoing in her mind, in her _blood_ even as her eyes opened again and she saw instead Duncan and Alistair’s faces hovering over her.

She groaned, sitting up. “I hoped that worked, because it is _not_ worth it if it didn’t.”

“Two more deaths,” Alistair muttered, apparently not having caught Esfera’s attempt at lightheartedness. “In my Joining, only one of us died, but it was… horrible. I’m glad at least one of you made it through.”

“How do you feel?” Duncan asked her.

 _Uncomfortable,_ she thought. _Relieved, in a way, and then guilt for my relief._ She still felt haunted by Daveth and Ser Jory’s deaths, especially Ser Jory’s. She had barely known them, it was true, but… she had never had the chance _to_ know them. And now she never would.

She said none of those things. Only, “it certainly hurt.”

“Did you have dreams?” Alistair asked, his usual joking tone surprisingly soft, filled with entirely unrestrained emotion, even fear. “I had terrible dreams after my joining.”

“I… yes. A nightmare, more terrible than I have words to describe.”

_And beautiful._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Esfera looked down at the amulet in her hands, even as she walked back through the camp toward the Wardens’ fires after her meeting with the king and Loghain. She had not let it go since Alistair had handed it to her, even through the entire meeting. It was comforting, in an odd way. A mix of poisoned blood, in the palm of her hands. It _was_ a reminder of the sacrifices she had made. Those she was likely to _continue_ to make. 

She had been confused, at first, about why Duncan had asked _her_ to accompany him to this meeting with such great company, but he had reminded her that the Wardens had few friends in Ferelden, and Loghain was resistant to any aid from outside the kingdom. Although a recent development, she _was_ close to the same rank as the General, and so had the authority, perhaps, to sway his opinion. At the very least, being Teyrn Cousland’s daughter meant that it would be disrespectful of _him_ to refuse her access to the meeting.

It hadn’t stopped her parents before. In fact, this had been her first time meeting Loghain, and only second with Cailan. As the youngest, her family had hardly ever let her leave Highever, except occasionally for combat training. Her brother had been the ambassador, the aide at her father’s side. Truly, this meeting was the first time Esfera had actually acted as _nobility_ , and not simply as the guard-dog of some wealthy family.

Not that her noble opinion mattered at all. She returned to Alistair only with the news that the two of them (and Cookie) would be lighting the beacon to signal the charge. She somewhat agreed with Loghain, that the king was being wasteful, but Duncan was right-- the Grey Wardens could not afford to make enemies of either the king _or_ Loghain.

But she still felt uneasy. Cailan had said that the beacon was important and so they should send their best. So why her and Alistair? She, only hours a Warden and Alistair certainly not much further ahead? It did not make sense to her, no matter how she tried to understand it.

“So he needs two Grey Wardens there holding the torch?” Alistair asked, the indignity in his tone obvious. “Just _in case_ , right?”

Esfera nodded. “It _does_ seem like a waste.”

“That is not your _choice_ ,” Duncan sighed. “If King Cailan wishes Grey Wardens to ensure the beacon is lit, then Grey Wardens will be there. We must do whatever it takes to destroy the darkspawn, exciting or no.”

Esfera frowned, her fingers twitching. She felt useless, a pawn in a game someone else was playing around her. Less than a pawn. She wouldn’t even be fighting.

But Alistair’s acquiescence was much less resigned than her own.

“I get it, I get it. But just so you know, if the king ever asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I’m drawing the line. Darkspawn or no.”

And just like that, her unease quieted. Esfera laughed, covering her mouth in surprise and embarrassment as Duncan looked at her curiously. It had been sudden, and loud, and entirely freeing.

“I would like to see that,” she admitted from behind her palm.

Alistair’s lips curled upwards, his eyes catching the firelight and gleaming. “For _you_ , maybe. But it has to be a _pretty_ dress.”

“Oh, only the finest in Ferelden!”

She was still laughing, even as she answered him. She knew Duncan was watching her with a controlled level of surprise and amusement, but she could not seem to help it.

She… hadn’t laughed even once in all of the weeks since leaving her family’s castle burning down behind her, just about everyone she ever loved and cared about still inside of it. And Duncan wasn’t exactly the most comforting company. He was not _bad,_ certainly, it was just… he was no jokester, and always so focused on the duty ahead that he had nothing to say to her to make her feel better. But now she was there, in front of a bonfire on the eve of battle… laughing. It felt strange, as if she had forgotten how to do it.

“Don’t encourage him, Esfera,” Duncan scowled, shaking his head. But there was still affection in his voice. “The Tower is on the other side of the gorge from the king’s camp, the way we came when we arrived.”

Ah, so Duncan had decided to ignore the jokes and return to business. He explained what they needed to do, that “Alistair will know what to look for.” and, apparently, if the Archdemon showed up, they would do nothing but soil their drawers. Well, that last one was suggested by Alistair. Duncan only told them that he wanted no heroics from either of them.

“Duncan,” Alistair said before turning to go, “May the Maker watch over you.”

“May he watch over us all.”

And that was that. Duncan disappeared into the Grey Warden forces, leaving Esfera and Alistair alone next to the bonfire.

“So when will I get to learn all of these special Grey Warden things that, so far, only you have been privy to?” she asked him.

“Stay alive through the battle and we’ll see,” he answered, his lips twitching. “Come on. We’ve got a job to do. It’s a lousy one, but apparently important.”

Esfera nodded, and then whistled for her hound.

But when Cookie arrived at the bonfire, he did not run to her side as he usually did. He stopped, one paw in the air as if he were hunting, his shackles raised and his teeth releasing a low growl.

Esfera stepped back, confused. “Cookie?”

He continued growling, increasing in ferocity even as she stepped toward him, hand outstretched.

“Cookie, what is wrong with you? It is me, it’s Esfera.”

From behind her, Alistair warned, “you may not want to…”

She felt her dog’s jaws clamp around her outstretched hand, a sudden, fierce _snap_ , the teeth sinking deep into her flesh. It hurt, but it was nothing compared to the Joining. She managed not to flinch, remaining calm and keeping her voice low.

“Cookie. Hey… I smell different, don’t I? Is that why you’re acting this way?”

He growled again, and it dawned on her, the magnitude of what the Joining had done to her. She didn’t just smell different, she _smelled like Darkspawn._

With her other hand, she slowly pulled a ball of twine out of her pocket, holding it out to him. “See? It’s your favorite toy. Doesn’t _this_ still smell like me?”

The dog slowly began to relax, whimpering as he let go of her hand, looking up at her sadly. With her uninjured hand she reached up to stroke his ears, pressing a kiss right between his eyes, just like she had ever since she was a child. “Good boy, Cookie.”

He whined, then began licking the blood off of her hand.

“You… handled that a lot better than I would. That doesn’t hurt at all? He’s a warhound!”

Esfera shrugged. “My hands are quite thick with callouses by now and the leather glove took much of the blow. I was much more worried that something had happened to him. I… hadn’t considered how unrecognizable the taint would make me to him. I’m… glad he understands now.”

She pulled off the glove, reached into her pack and pulled out a length of gauze, wrapping it around her palm then tying it around her thumb. “Then let us go, Cookie. And Alistair, too.” She strapped the glove back on, stroking Cookie’s ears one more time before continuing on her way. 

“Which one of us is the dog?” Alistair wondered out loud, but followed after her anyway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everything after that was a blur. The battle seemed to begin all at once, and then they were running, the tower was overrun with darkspawn, Loghain’s men were killed… it must’ve been a good idea to have Grey Wardens light the beacon after all.

Esfera convinced the soldier and mage that had given them this news to accompany them back into the tower, to retake it, to complete their mission.

They cut through the darkspawn flooding the lower levels easily enough, especially with the aid of the kenneled Mabari, but they were still losing time. One hour? Was that enough? Had they missed it?

They had hurried into the top level of the tower, only to be stopped by the huge, looming figure of an ogre. That was what Almoud had called it, right? A massive darkspawn with huge, strong arms and twisting horns? An ogre?

It was ripping into the body of one of Loghain’s men, human blood streaming down its chin, its neck. But it lost interest entirely as they entered, immediately rushing into a charge.

Esfera brought her shield up to block, but it was useless. The force of the ogre’s charge knocked her flying, and she landed in a heap several feet away, dazed.

She saw Alistair duck the ogre’s fist, slashing at it with his sword. But it didn’t seem to be fazed much.

They needed to take it down.

The mage was doing his best, firing spells from a distance, but he was clearly scared, and his bolts were fizzling out almost immediately upon impact. She shook the daze out of her head, getting to her feet, and shouting for Cookie to charge.

The dog did not need to be told twice. While Alistair kept it occupied from the front, Cookie ran to where its back was facing then exploded into a run, all of his momentum and body weight colliding with the creature as he landed, teeth gnashing into its neck.

The ogre roared, reaching up to its neck to dislodge the hound, but Esfera did not give him the chance. She slashed at its ankle, as deep as she could while still keeping a grip on her sword.

It reached toward her, but this time she was ready, pushing its fist aside with her shield, jabbing her sword into its tough hide through the opening she had created.

Cookie tore into the creature’s neck, but his teeth weren’t quite getting through.

But another magic bolt crashed into its other leg, this time sending fire blazing through its flesh, until it collapsed forward.

“We’ve got it down!” Alistair shouted, and it was a race of swords, spells, teeth.

It got back to its feet, but it was weak. It could not fight much more. And it wouldn’t.

She hadn’t seen Alistair move to a running distance, but he had, and suddenly he was leaping into the air, his sword pointing directly into its throat, dark blood pouring outwards, splattering his armor. It fell backwards under the blow, carrying Alistair forward, burying his sword again into its throat, its face. And then it went still.

Esfera was still staring as he straightened, pulling his sword out of its eye socket and turning back toward her. “The signal!”

“O-oh, right!” she snatched a torch from the wall and raced over to the wood piled up, ready for the beacon, and dropped it onto it.

The fire blazed to life, and she saw Alistair’s shoulders relax.

“Well, that was your first ogre,” he remarked, wiping darkspawn gore off of his nose.

“Nice, uh… nice final kill, there. Do you… _have_ to kill them that way?”

“Yeah, these things have a nasty habit of getting back up if you don’t tear out their throats.” He paused. “Why? Was there something wrong with how I did it?”

She shook her head. “No no, it was fine. Very, um… fine.”

She was blushing, so quickly turned away to tend to the mage, who was starting to have a meltdown, looking out the window.

“Where are they going?!”

She never got the chance to see what he meant. More hurlocks burst from the stairs, pouring into the chamber, more than her sword could meet. She _felt_ , rather than _saw_ the arrows shoot into her, knocking her over with the force of the blow. She hit the ground hard, her helmet cracking against her skull. Her eyes clouded over, and the writhing flesh of darkspawn was the last thing she saw before it all went dark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She had not expected Morrigan to be the first thing she saw upon awakening. Well, she hadn’t expected to awaken _at all_ , so seeing the witch from earlier that day was just one more surprise to add to the day’s laundry list.

“Ah, your eyes finally open! Mother shall be pleased.”

“M...Morrigan? That was your name, right?”

“Yes. Glad to see your memory is alright.”

“I…” Esfera pressed her hand to her forehead, thinking back. “I was in the tower of Ishal. We were overrun by darkspawn. I… what happened to the king? To the battle?”

“The _darkspawn_ won the day, for the man who was supposed to respond to your signal quit the field.”

Esfera blinked, Morrigan’s words taking some moments to breach her aching head. “He… Loghain just… left? How could he-- why would he--?” she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Well, it _does_ matter, but I cannot ask _you_ why such a trusted hero betrayed his king.”

“Your king… is dead. And all those who were abandoned were slaughtered,” Morrigan continued, raising an eyebrow. “Your friend is not taking it well.”

“My… friend? You mean Cookie, my dog?”

“Well, he certainly _whines_ as much as your dog. But no, this one is sadly capable of human speech.”

Esfera wracked her brain. She _had_ no friends left. They had all died at Highever. So who could she--

“ALISTAIR!”

Morrigan’s lips twitched as Esfera launched herself out of the bed, then realized she was wearing only smallclothes.

“Yes… that _was_ his name. Now, if you have no more questions, my mother is waiting outside…”

“How did I get out? How did I get _here_?”

“My mother rescued you,” Morrigan answered matter-of-factly. She seemed irritated by this whole business, though forcing herself to stay polite.

“How?”

“As a giant eagle, if you’ll believe it. She scooped you up, one in each talon, and brought you to this hut.”

“And the others?”

She shook her head. “I am afraid you are the only two Grey Wardens remaining alive after the battle.”

Esfera’s heart sank, even deeper than it had been before. That meant that _Duncan_ was…

She hurried to get dressed, a bit embarrassed by Morrigan seeing her like this, ensuring her armor was properly strapped on before she pushed open the door.

Cookie ran to her side as soon as she emerged, and she instantly buried her fingers in his coarse fur, the familiarity of the feeling comforting to her.

And… there was Alistair, staring into the distance of the swamp, facing away from her.

“See, here is your fellow Grey Warden,” Flemeth announced, sounding relieved, though not in a way that indicated that she had been concerned for her life. “You worry too much, young man.”

Alistair turned toward Esfera, exhaling and taking her by the shoulders, looking her up and down. “You’re alive! And… okay! I thought you were dead for sure.”

Esfera grinned. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“I… wouldn’t want to get _rid_ of you! I mean, I--” He shook his head, letting go of her shoulders. “If it weren’t for Morrigan’s mother, we would be dead. Just like the rest of them.”

“Yes…” Esfera turned away from him, wondering why her cheeks were still warm, although she was fully clothed. “I have much to thank you for…”

Flemeth, the woman told them. A name that sparked fear, certainly. But that was not important compared to the task ahead, a daunting one that sent Alistair to near hysterics. Or perhaps he had _been_ in hysterics this entire time, and it was only becoming more severe. That seemed more likely.

Not that he shouldn’t be. To be fair, Esfera was unsure why _she_ was so calm, considering all that had happened, all that they had lost, and yet still had in front of them. Perhaps she was just numb, after losing her family in Highever. Shock no longer had much effect.

And more overwhelming, that Morrigan would be coming along! This wild mage, who clearly despised Alistair and had no personal wish to accompany them… Esfera felt guilty forcing her to join them when she did not want to, but she could not refuse the aid. Not when thousands of darkspawn stood between them and the rest of Ferelden, yet Morrigan could get them past.

But finally, when the plan had been set and Morrigan was going into the hut to retrieve her belongings, Esfera turned to Alistair.

“I know a lot has happened, but… Duncan was close to you. You must grieve for him.”

“I…” his voice shook, and he looked down at his feet. “You don’t have to comfort me. I know you didn’t know him as long as I did.”

Esfera laid a hand gently on his arm, catching his gaze again. “For the days we traveled from Highever to Ostagar… Duncan was the only one with me. I know it doesn’t compare, but... he was a good man. I owe him my life. But I… never got the chance to grieve for my family. I’m sure you would agree Duncan was not much of a talker. I felt alone with my grief. I would not wish the same on you. If you want to talk about it… I am here to listen.”

His shoulders eased, but his face only saddened more. “I… should have handled it better. He told me this could happen. Any of us could die in battle, any time. I shouldn’t have lost it, not when so much is riding on us, not with the Blight and… and everything. I’m sorry.”

Esfera shook her head. “You don’t need to apologize. We can’t control how we react to situations like this.”

To be honest, his genuine emotion was surprising to her. She had expected him to avoid the conversation, shake her concern away. That was what most of the men she had known would have done. Of course, most of the men she had known were noble boys trying to “win her hand.” And she was certain that any of them would have become blubbering, intolerable idiots after _half_ of what Alistair had been through.

“Still, if you’re worried enough to want to talk to me about it, I _must’ve_ overreacted.”

“I find that almost nothing is unworthy of my worry. Especially the only fellow Warden I have left.”

He smiled for a second, then his face fell again. “I’d… like to have a proper funeral for him. Maybe once this is all done, if we’re still alive. I think he mentioned being born in Highever, once.”

Esfera blinked. She’d never gotten that impression. Absolutely nothing about Duncan had ever indicated to her that he was one of her own people.

“I think that’s a wonderful idea. After all, _I’m_ from Highever. I can help you find a good place. As the only family he had.”

“Family… I guess. Part of me wishes I was with him. In the battle. If I hadn’t abandoned him…”

“He saved your life by sending you to the tower. Would he have wanted you to die alongside him?”

“I…” he looked up at her, then shook his head. “No, he wouldn’t have. But it would have been better. For everyone. For Ferelden.”

Esfera opened her mouth to say more, but by then Morrigan emerged, a small leather pack slung over her shoulder, her whorled wooden staff slid through its straps.

“Let us hurry, then, _before_ we are completely overrun,” she urged, completely unconcerned with having interrupted their conversation.

Esfera looked down at where her hand still rested on Alistair’s arm and pulled away, but still stayed close to him. There was much to be done. But she was glad at least she would not have to do it alone. Neither of them did.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Esfera looked down at the small, crystalline structure before her, half-buried in the dust and grime of the ruins’ floor, only steps away from the mysterious stone pedestal. There seemed to be some kind of liquid within it, and she could hear a slight hum coming from it, as if it was vibrating slightly against the floor.

She reached out to pick it up, but hesitated. It was ancient, mysterious magic that had gotten her into this mess in the first place.

First there had been the Dalish. Go there first, then cycle north and west, she’d decided. And of course she’d _expected_ ancient magic from the elves, since it was more or less their _thing_ , but the werewolf curse had been a surprise.

Mostly because upon meeting them, Esfera had greatly begun mistrusting what Zathrian, the Dalish Keeper, had told her about the werewolf’s curse. She had already had misgivings even before, as soon as she had asked whether all werewolves came from Witherfang, and he had replied that only the ones in the forest did. That he would not elaborate further because he “had much to do” was… concerning. She had not thought much of it at the time, but the deeper she plunged into the forest, the more unease she felt. 

She had wanted only for those misgivings to be answered by the werewolves, but they had refused to talk, to discuss anything, despite her best efforts. Her armor was almost entirely stained with their blood, and Morrigan was beginning to grow tired of her attempts to negotiate. 

“What do you think about this?” she asked her companions, gesturing to the gem-like object.

Morrigan leaned over her shoulder, peering at it. “It appears to be a phylactery. Containing the blood of some ancient being, and infused with magic. Likely why the blood has not congealed, despite its apparent age. A most interesting artifact. May I have it?”

Esfera hesitated again, looking toward Alistair, who only shrugged. “No idea. It’s magic, so touching it’s probably bad.”

And then finally there was Leliana, one of the two new party members, who Esfera suspected still had not told her everything. There was her claim to have been sent by the Maker, by a vision, but Esfera had her doubts. Still, the Chantry Sister’s powers of persuasion and lock-picking had come in handy, so she kept her around. 

“It may be dangerous, but it is your decision.”

Esfera frowned, glancing at Morrigan again, then sighed and reached for the phylactery.

As soon as she touched it, she felt its subtle vibration grow, reaching tendrils into her mind, tendrils which quickly took shape of images, visions of a life not her own. Flashes of armor through trees, of unfamiliar faces smiling, crying, running, dancing. And in those images she felt… a presence, of some kind. A spirit, perhaps? A ghost?

It recoiled at her questioning thoughts, and the images Esfera saw were of stone and iron, cold nights alone, imprisoned. Crystal and bone and blood, alone, alone, alone.

 _Do not be afraid,_ she thought, although she herself felt fear. Her body, holding the phylactery in its hand, felt distant, so distant that she was unsure she would be able to control it, to let go of the phylactery even if she wanted to.

The Presence calmed, releasing its memories to her in something that felt like… relief. Trapped in the Life Gem, which must have been the phylactery. Time slept, awoken, gone mad, then slept again. It did not wish to return to that madness. Anything but that.

_But who are you?_

It had no name it could remember-- an elf in glittering armor. But remembered as if through a fog, reaching for faces and items that disappeared as soon as the hand reached it. Here, a place of serenity, where the eldest went to slumber and were visited by people offering tribute to the gods on their behalf. Then violence, war, even before the humans came. No reason, or perhaps there was a reason. But then more war, a great battle, elves and humans both screaming to escape some terrible presence.

It had fled into the life gem, sure that someone would rescue it. But none had come… until Esfera.

It wanted freedom. No-- not freedom. It had no urge to join the world again. It wanted… an end. A release. And in exchange, it would teach her the art of the Arcane Warrior, one who was Mage and Warrior both. _But how? How do I release you?_

More images, of the Life Gem being placed on a stone altar, where it would vibrate and explode, destroying the Presence along with it.

_This is really what you want?_

A powerful yearning crashed through her mind, strong enough to make her own heart ache in tandem with it.

She felt herself get to her feet, carrying the gem toward the altar. Distantly, she heard Alistair’s voice, asking where she was going with it. Morrigan, complaining that she was not giving her the gem as she had asked. But too distant to change anything.

 _Tell me about the Arcane Warrior_.

The Presence warned her that, since she was no mage, she could not use the art herself. But she could teach others what it passed to her. But whoever she did teach it to, whoever did follow the Arcane Warrior’s path… they would be the last of the order.

It flooded Esfera’s mind with images, the feeling of strength coursing through her arms, her legs, an impossible strength. Armor infused with magic, swords racing with lyrium.

She held onto those images, squeezing her eyes tight as she set the Life Gem gently down on the stone altar.

 _Thank you_ , she thought, as she let go.

And then, just as it had claimed, the gem exploded into crystalline dust, and the Presence was gone. Once more, there was only she, Alistair, Morrigan, and Leliana in the dingy light filtering through the ruins. But her mind was still reeling, still processing what she had learned. She grabbed Morrigan by the arm, pulling the mage toward her, managing to cut her off mid-sentence in her eagerness.

“Morrigan! Could you use magic to make your own body stronger?!”

“What?”

“I mean… instead of sending magic _out_ , send it _in._ So even if you stay scrawny as you are, you could still swing a sword with as much force as I could?”

Morrigan stopped, looking between Esfera and the dust from the phylactery. “I… suppose it’s possible… but nothing I’ve ever _attempted_ before. Such a thing could be very dangerous, if you don’t know what you’re doing. Send a spell you can’t control perfectly into your own body and you’ll certainly tear yourself apart. ...Why? What did you find in that gem that gave you such a dazed expression?”

Esfera explained as well as she could, the words tumbling out of her mouth as rapidly as she could find them to describe what she had seen, often falling out of order. 

When finally she finished explaining, they had moved much deeper into the dungeon, and Morrigan’s lips were pressed into a thin line. “It is… intriguing. I would not want to attempt it without more study, but… I am not opposed to it.” She raised an eyebrow at Esfera, who was dislodging her sword from a giant spider’s abdomen. “Are you not afraid of making me too powerful, with this information?”

“Yes, whatever happened to ‘you ever see a mage with a sword and shield?’” Alistair piped up.

“I don’t think anyone has known _how_ to do it for centuries. But… you’re the strongest mage I know,” Esfera argued. “And if this art is so old, it is… precious. A memory from long ago that perhaps no one else has managed to preserve. If _we_ can manage to do it somehow… I wish to.”

“Your flattery does you no credit, as you do not know many mages,” Morrigan answered, though she looked pleased as she slid her staff back through the straps of her pack. “But I am surprised by your efforts to preserve history, especially one so clearly elven. Does your Chantry not forbid such things?”

At this, Leliana was the best one to answer. “Some of the more power-hungry Chantry clerics may wish to hide a history that reveals our past to be less glorious than we pretend. But the _true_ Chantry respects knowledge, of all kinds. The Maker’s world is all of history, not only humanity’s.”

“I wasn’t asking _your_ opinion,” Morrigan snapped.

“Calm down, both of you.” Esfera shook her head. “I’m not particularly dedicated to the Maker, honestly.”

Leliana looked aghast. “You’re not? But you said…”

“Don’t-- I made no lie to you, Leliana, when I said I liked your version of religion better than the Chantry’s. I suppose I misspoke. Perhaps I do believe in the Maker. But I do not have much faith in the Chantry.”

“Probably healthy,” Alistair piped up.

“May I ask why?” Leliana asked, her voice softening.

Esfera closed her eyes, finally stopping in the midst of a wide, empty room. “I’ve had many tutors in my life. Only the best education for the daughter of the Teyrn, of course. Dwarven merchants and smiths, Chantry priests, the family’s knights, even an Avvar warrior. And, of course, mages from the Circle.”

She opened her eyes, moving to the crumbling remains of a skeleton and dusting off a book that lay clutched in its arms. “Much of history had been taught to me by a Sister, but when she was called back to Orlais for family reasons, she was replaced with a woman named Kinsey from the Circle Tower. Young, only barely a full mage, but she had a passion for history that she easily passed on to me.”

“A passion no doubt influenced by the Chantry,” Morrigan scoffed.

Esfera shook her head. “That was just it. What Kinsey told me did not always match up with what the Sisters had taught. And the more I learned, the more history became… unclear. Messy. Kinsey gave me books, scrolls, artworks that she collected. I had loved her, and she was a great friend to me.”

Esfera handed the book to Morrigan, who began gingerly leafing through it.

“What happened to her?” Leliana asked.

“Once, and only once, one of her spells went wrong. She was using the Highever libraries to do research, of course. She was trying to replicate a document that linked veilfire to magical locks. But it went wrong. Rather than veilfire, what she created was a hot blue flame that tore through the library. She was able to put it out quickly with a blast of ice, but… the damage was done.”

“Let me guess,” Alistair piped up, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Templars?”

She nodded. “Templars. They arrived not days later, insisting she return to the Tower with them. I fought them, even drew my sword on them, insisting that she had done nothing wrong, that it was just a simple mistake. I _begged_ them not to take Kinsey away. But my protests fell on deaf ears. I was nobility, but still naught but a child. I never heard from Kinsey again. I wrote letters, but received none. I can only imagine what happened to her.”

“Yeah, don’t imagine. You probably don’t want to know,” Alistair said, wincing. 

“And to think! If Duncan hadn’t recruited you, you may have been one of them!” Esfera joked, squaring her shoulders as the piles of bones began to move, to put themselves back together in front of the party.

“Oh not likely,” he smirked, unsheathing his sword. “I think I’d have rather ended up as a drooling lunatic, slaughtered the grand cleric and run through the streets of Denerim in my small clothes.”

“At least you’re self-aware,” Morrigan shot back, already blasting a skeleton with a column of flame.

“Thought you’d like that.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Zathrian, it so turned out, had _not_ been honest with them. Surprise!

Exhausted, gore-splattered, sustained almost entirely by the dozens of healing poultices she had used in the past several hours, Esfera was happy to sheathe her sword and parley with the Lady of the Forest.

Upon finding out the atrocities that had been committed against Zathrian’s children, she _had_ felt a great deal of sympathy for him. Even the magnitude of his curse, a hatred that had sustained him for centuries… she did not blame him. Could she honestly say that she would not have reacted the same way, if it had been her own loved ones?

She clenched her fist, remembering the feeling of the metal studs on her armor cutting through to the flesh beneath as she’d watched Castle Highever burn behind her. Yes, had Duncan not been there, she very well could have done something just as awful, if she’d had the power to.

She relaxed, looking up at the Lady of the Forest, the unreadable black eyes in the body of a beautiful woman. “I will bring Zathrian here. It is time for this curse to end. But there has been enough bloodshed. And I regret that I am the one who has done much of it.”

The Lady gestured toward the door at the far end of the hall, leading to the surface of the ruins. “The way has been opened for you. I send my gratitude.”

Esfera nodded, passing the watching werewolves with as much grace as she could muster, even though her whole body felt heavy. Though perhaps that was largely due to the heaviness of the armor she was now wearing. Defeating the Revenants had been incredibly difficult, and she’d been knocked unconscious twice, but eventually they had managed to kill them all, acquiring the Tevinter armor. She was still not quite used to its weight, but the protection it offered her was tremendous.

“Are you sure about this?” Leliana asked, keeping pace with her while Morrigan and Alistair began to bicker behind them. “I believe we are doing the right thing, but we came to this forest to convince the Dalish to join us in fighting the Blight. If we take the werewolves’ side over theirs, we may not succeed.”

Esfera bit her lip. “I… am not _taking_ sides, Leliana. If I had known all of this from the beginning, this may have gone differently. I may not have had to _kill_ Danyla out of mercy, or slaughtered those werewolves, those _men_ who threw themselves at me. _We_ killed them.”

Leliana frowned. “You always surprise me, you know that, Esfera?”

“Why’s that?” she asked, digging through the piles of treasure that sat just before the exit to the ruin’s surface.

“You’re a warrior who hates bloodshed. It sounds like a strange set of choices, no?”

Esfera handed her a bag of coins, then straightened and pushed the doors open. “I _do_ enjoy the thrill of battle. But only when it is _necessary_. I do not revel in helpless refugees falling under my blade because they saw me as a rare source of coin. Perhaps that was why I desired to be a Grey Warden. There is no guilt in felling twisted, soulless monsters.”

She was eager to return to the Dalish camp in order to find Zathrian, because there she would be able to purchase elfroot, sell the extraneous items they had picked up through the ruins, Morrigan could make some more health poultices, and they might be able to get some _rest_. She had confidence that the werewolves would not attack while they waited for her to retrieve the elder.

But alas, it was not to be. Zathrian was waiting for them in the center of the ruins’ grand entrance, his face as pinched and guarded as it had been when he had sent them after Witherfang in the first place.

“You… why are you here?” Esfera asked, her hands reflexively reaching toward her sword. “How did you get through the forest?”

Zathrian chuckled. “I have ways and magics that you do not know. I was concerned that you may not have succeeded in retrieving Witherfang’s heart, so I followed you here. Did you?”

“The werewolves are not as you claimed. The Lady of the Forest wishes to meet you, to talk of a peaceful way of ending the curse. Only then will she summon Witherfang.”

Zathrian grimaced. “Oh, is that what the spirit is calling herself now? How noble. You realize you have been fooled? That spirit _is_ Witherfang.”

Esfera sighed, glancing at her party members. She was starting to get tired of his snide, self-important voice. “Yes, I thought as much. But my conviction has not changed. I will not slaughter them for you. Come with us, Zathrian. Both the werewolves and your own people have suffered enough because of your revenge.”

He paused, looking back and forth between her and her party members. Well, her, Leliana, and Alistair. Morrigan seemed too busy reading through the book Esfera had handed her earlier. “I see you’ve taken the side of those beasts. How do I know they will not simply tear me apart as soon as I enter?”

“ _If_ they did, I would interfere. I am here to secure the alliance of your people, after all. But I truly do want peace, Zathrian. As do the werewolves. The men who you cursed long ago did terrible things, but these are men far distant from that time. Give them a chance. Please.”

He scowled at her, but sighed angrily. “They were the same savages then that they are now. They deserve to be wiped out and not defended. You merely look for their better selves because you are one of them.” He scoffed, ignoring Esfera’s hardened expression. “Fine. Perhaps they will see reason. Though I find it unlikely, I will go with you. We shall see.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oh they saw. They saw Zathrian completely refuse to listen to the Spirit’s pleas, Esfera’s urges-- and even threats-- to reconsider, that she would not help him kill men only trying to reclaim their humanity. And then, of course, saw that he turned on them, too.

She was happy when Alistair came to stand at her side, his voice firm. “We’re standing for what’s _right_ , here. No matter what.”

The “what” apparently being the sylvans that Zathrian brought to life, their powerful branches trapping her in their grasp, helpless as Zathrian’s magic bore down on Leliana, who dodged as much as possible while raining arrows down on him.

Fire raced through the sylvan’s branches, and the thing screeched with pain, releasing Esfera from its hold. “Thanks Morrigan!” she shouted, breaking the last of the branches with a swing of her shield and climbing over them toward the center of its body, sinking her sword through the branches to where its heart should be.

“Kill the mage and thank me later!” she shouted back, still firing bolts of magic at the sylvans, thankfully keeping them at bay while the other three concentrated on Zathrian. But it was three on one, and even Morrigan couldn’t handle them in close combat…

...Unless she turned into a bear and smashed them. That worked, too.

Esfera swung her blade at Zathrian’s chest, but it collided uselessly with a shield of magical energy and ricocheted back at her, almost sending it back against her own chest. Her arm went numb for a moment, but she forced herself forward. Even the elven Keeper couldn’t keep a shield like that up forever. Not when he was also keeping the werewolves frozen in place.

Sure enough, the barrier came down, and several of Leliana’s arrows pierced his flesh, while Esfera dodged out of the way as a flaming sylvan came crashing down from above her.

She kicked Zathrian’s feet out from under him, grabbing him by the throat, although he was holding a flaming hand to her gut. She smelled burning, but grit her teeth against the pain.

“You could have ended this peacefully,” she reminded him, as blood trickled through his teeth. She brought the point of her sword up to his neck, Alistair reaching toward him and snatching the mage’s burning hand away from Esfera’s stomach, his hand glowing slightly, likely the reason Zathrian’s magic suddenly snuffed out. 

Esfera dropped her shield, holding her hand to the burn and turning back to the Lady. “For the sake of your own people, who will suffer if you live only on your hatred. Please… end this peacefully.”

Zathrian looked down at the ground, his face full of grief. “You shame me, Spirit. I am… an old man, alive long past his time.”

“Then you will do it? You will end the curse?”

“Yes… I think it is time. Let us put an end to it all,” Zathrian answered, his voice resigned.

The werewolves crowded around them, eager and ready. It was an awful smell, really. Wet dog, burned flesh… quite unpleasant. Or maybe she was just very, very, very tired.

The Lady looked at Alistair, with his vicegrip on Zathrian’s wrist. He seemed reluctant to let go, to let the mage free to use his magic. He looked back at Esfera, who bit her lip, then nodded.

Alistair let go, stepping out of the circle of werewolves to go to Esfera’s side.

“For what it’s worth… being a Grey Warden doesn’t _usually_ go like this.”

“Nice grip, Templar.”

“EX-Templar, thank you.”

She elbowed him, watching as the ritual finished. As first Zathrian collapsed, and then the magic surge out of his body, enveloping them all in a blue-white light which coalesced around the Lady, who looked one last time at the werewolves she had befriended. She smiled gently as Swiftrunner laid a hand on her shoulder, then looked up at Esfera and nodded.

And then she was gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Esfera stumbled, rather than walked, back into camp.

Cookie came to greet her, his stub of a tail wagging fiercely. She was grateful for that, because he nearly had to carry her back to her tent, a job he handled quite easily. 

Sten, the Qunari warrior that Leliana had helped her release from a cage back in Lothering, stood on the edge of their circle of tents, watching the wilderness wordlessly as she began unbuckling her armor.

“You have returned,” he said matter-of-factly.

“We have.”

“I am surprised.”

She half-chuckled. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Sten.”

Her breastplate fell into the dirt behind her with a clang, and she looked down at the burn. It was quite ugly, singed edges of her linen shirt buried in the wound.

She pulled the pieces of cloth out of the wound, wincing as doing so reopened the fused flesh. Next to her, Cookie whimpered, leaning over and licking at the burn.

But then his head was being pushed aside by a hand with long, thin fingers, and Morrigan was crouching down beside her, investigating the burn herself. “As if your stinking drool is going to do anything against a wound like that, stupid mongrel,” she scoffed, ignoring Cookie’s indignant whining. “And _you!_ Don’t just sit there and _take_ hits! You’re a strong woman, and I respect that, but there’s no need to be so risky.”

Esfera laughed. “I apologize for worrying you, Morrigan.”

“Not _me._ You should’ve seen that _oaf_ when he smelled the burn. If he didn’t have so much respect for you I think he would’ve lopped that elf’s head off right there.”

“...Alistair?”

“I see no other great oaf in this camp, aside from your drooling beast.” She produced a salve from her pack and began applying it to Esfera’s burn, not at all gently, but it was cool to the touch and soothed the pain.

“But you are the one helping me now.”

Morrigan glared at her. “I will be most inconvenienced if your injuries stay as they are, since my mission is to aid you Grey Wardens against the Blight. And because I don’t trust Alistair to do it, I’ve got to make sure you stay on your feet. That is all.”

The salve applied, she then held her hand to the burn, her fingertips glowing slightly. Under her touch, the flesh began to knit back together.

“There,” Morrigan affirmed, getting back to her feet. “There will be a scar, but I doubt that bothers you. You’ve already amassed quite the collection.”

Esfera grinned. “Ladies love scars, I am told.”

Morrigan only rolled her eyes. “That may work on Leliana, but not on me. Now get some sleep. I certainly intend to.”

She stalked off, and Esfera leaned back against Cookie’s chest with a groan.

“I would love to, but I’m starving.”

Cookie barked, wiggling out from under her head and running off into the forest.

“Why didn’t you go hunting _before_ I returned from an incredibly long and dangerous mission?!” She shouted after him. Though she knew the answer. She had left Cookie back at camp in order to keep an eye on Sten, whom she still didn’t trust. She had given him a chance at redemption through service to the Grey Wardens, but his crime was grave. She could hardly place complete faith in a creature that had slaughtered the very farmhold that had selflessly aided him.

But it looked like nothing had changed at all about the camp since they had left it… several days ago, now. The dwarven merchant, Bodhan, and his son, Sandal, still hovered at the edges of it, going through the wares on their cart. The only difference now was the nervous-looking elf who approached her.

“Ah, yes, Warden. I’m… Caron, the representative of the Dalish elves. Lanaya sent me. I’ll be staying with your camp while my people gather forces.”

Esfera sat up, reaching out for a handshake. “Thank you. Will your people be ready for battle?”

He shrugged. “The Dalish are not one singular force like many human armies are. It will take some time to contact each other, as we encounter each other in the forests and wilds. But rest assured, Warden. When the time comes to march against the Blight, we will be there.”

Esfera nodded, and Caron returned to the supply crates Bodahn had provided to store whatever they gathered for their troops.

She saw Cookie come running back into the camp, a large goose in his jaw, looking happy with himself.

Still tired, she patted the dog’s head. “Oh, what a good catch! We’ll see if we can cook this right away!”

She went towards the firepit, then hesitated, remembering that she didn’t have the first clue how to cook. Leliana was already asleep, and she’d bothered Morrigan enough…

She turned toward Alistair, the bloody goose still in her hands. But before she could even say anything, he was already taking it from her. “Yes, yes, it’s time to make supper, Alistair. My pleasure! It’ll be dull and gray, though. Just a warning. But this is a _fat_ goose! Where did that dog find this thing!”

Cookie barked, jumping around excitedly.

“Yes, yes, you’re very impressive.” Alistair shook his head, but got to work pulling the bird’s feathers off. “It’s been a _long_ day.”

Esfera sat down next to him, sighing. “Yes… _much_ longer than I had expected. I had thought we could just show up in the Brecilian Forest, show the treaties to the elves, and have our army. Not werewolves, ancient vengeance, spirits, ghosts, and revenants…” She untied the string at the end of her braid, pulling her hair loose and shaking it out, dust falling out of it as she did so. “They simply _have_ to make things difficult for me.”

Alistair laughed. “Have to get used to it, I guess. What with the whole kingdom hunting us down.”

They sat in silence for a while, Esfera’s eyes beginning to drift closed as he worked, until she heard him sit down next to her again.

“So… are you okay? That burn, I mean. And all of the times you got hit by the revenants. That had to hurt.”

“That _was_ why we agreed that I deserved their armor. Since I took most of the hits,” she replied, her lips curling upwards, although her eyes were still closed.

“But I did most of the damage.”

“Did _not_.”

He laughed again, but then paused, shuffling around. “Here, look at this.”

Esfera opened her eyes, looking down at the object he held out to her. 

“It’s… a rose.” She took it from his hands gingerly, bringing it up to her nose and breathing in the scent. “A very lovely rose, but…” she remembered the last time they’d been at camp, seeing him look down at it pensively. “Wait… you’ve been thumbing this rose for a while, haven’t you?”

“I picked it in Lothering. I remember thinking, ‘how could something so beautiful exist in a place with so much despair and ugliness?’ I probably should’ve left it alone, but I couldn’t. The darkspawn would come and their taint would just destroy it. So I’ve had it ever since.”

“Oh…” Esfera looked down at it, running her scarred finger over its velvety petals. Strange, that it was still beautiful and soft, despite how long it had been. “That’s so… lovely of you.”

“I thought I’d… give it to you, actually. In a lot of ways, I think the same when I think of you.”

Esfera turned to look at him quickly, suddenly much more awake than she’d been only moments earlier. “O-oh. You… didn’t have to… really? Me?”

He laughed, picking up a stick and poking at the goose roasting over the fire. “I guess it’s a bit silly. I just thought… here I am doing all this complaining, and you haven’t exactly been having a good time of it yourself. You’ve had none of the _good_ experience of being a Grey Warden since your Joining, not a word of thanks or congratulations. It’s all been death and fighting and tragedy. I thought maybe _I_ could say something, tell you what a rare and wonderful thing you are to find among all this… darkness.”

Esfera felt heat rise into her cheeks as she stared down at the rose, entirely unsure of how to respond. The most confusing part about it was that he was being completely, unabashedly honest. He was Alistair, so deception was entirely beyond him anyway. She’d been called a “lovely flower” before, but that had always been by noble sons hoping to win her favor and eventual hand in marriage. The same kind who would call her “no different from a Mabari” as soon as they thought she could not hear.

“I… thank you, Alistair.”

He laughed nervously, running his hands through his hair. “I’m glad you like it. Now, if we could move right on past this awkward, embarrassing stage and get right to the steamy bits, that’d be great.”

Esfera snorted, and he winced as if she was going to hit him. Which she thought about doing, but she thought a different revenge would be much more effective. She tucked the rose into the pocket of her shirt and leaned over, pressing her lips to the curve of his cheek, getting to her feet as his face turned just as red as the petals of the rose he had given her.

He stammered, at least until a wedge of cheese came sailing out of Leliana’s tent and hit him perfectly in the head, and her sleepy voice called out, “Can you not smell the bird burning?!”

“O-oh! Right! The goose!”

He hurried to pull the bird away from the fire before it turned _too_ black, and Esfera smiled to herself like a fool even as she returned to her own tent, still brushing her fingers over the rose’s petals.

There was still much to be done, but at least with the knowledge that the werewolves were freed from their curse and the Dalish were gathering their forces, her heart felt at ease for once. She could allow herself this brief happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote some of this while drunk because I was having trouble making words sound pretty. You’d be surprised how much easier it was to do compared to when I was sober. Don’t worry, I edited this when I became sober. If everything went well, you won't be able to tell which part it was. :P
> 
> Also, I am aware of how ungodly long these chapters are. They'll probably get a lot shorter after these first three introductory chapters, where I get each of the three protagonists' stories going.


	3. Therilli Lavellan- The Guardian

“It’s coming your way, Therilli! Get it, quick!”

Therilli reacted quickly to her sister’s voice, her sword flashing in the late afternoon sun as she brought it through the hart’s throat, stopping it mid-jump, crashing to the ground. It finally fell still at her feet, its blood beginning to pool on the ground at its neck just as the other elf came to a halt next to it, grinning at Therilli.

“Oh I guess you are a Hunter after all,” she joked, leaning over to yank an arrow from the now-dead hart’s flank. “I was starting to wonder.”

“I wouldn’t have had to take it down in the first place if your tiny arrow had actually hit something useful. All you did was scare it, Rianeth!”

“Yes, scare it directly to my sister’s waiting blade,” Rianeth remarked, nudging Therilli with her elbow. “We’ll be able to feed the clan for a while on this one if we prepare it right.”

Therilli rolled her eyes, untying her waterskin from her belt and setting it under the hart’s wound so that the blood spilled into it instead of onto the ground. “Don’t make it sound as if you planned it this way. Just because you’re the older one--”

“Wait, shhh…”

Rianeth went still, her finger in the air as she listened. He fingers twitched, signing to Therilli in a set of gestures only the two of them seemed to understand.

_Not alone. Someone else is here._

Therilli went still, following her sister’s example and listening for footsteps in the leaves, branches moving against the wind. If it was a shemlen, they would have to lose it before they returned to the clan’s camp. Clan Lavellan was relatively friendly with the nearby human populations, but not so much so that they didn’t take precautions.

There-- she heard the leaves rustle, only slightly. Clearly no novice in the woods, but not quite silent enough to miss the siblings’ notice. Rianeth’s hands moved to her bow, setting an arrow into it quietly.

Therilli caught her gaze, shaking her head. _Not a shem. Dalish._

To confirm it, she whistled a series of short notes, similar enough to birdsong to be mistaken from it, but distinct from any in this forest.

Another whistled song rang back to them, and both sisters relaxed slightly.

Rianeth nodded, but drew her bow anyway, aiming at the source of the sound. No overreaction on her part-- the Keeper had been quite explicit that only the two sisters were supposed to be out hunting that day.

“Clan Lavellan has taken up the Hunt in these woods, stranger,” Rianeth called. “If you are a friend, you may talk out in the open.”

A tall elven man with long, silvery-blond hair and greenish vallaslin dedicated to Falon’Din stepped into the open, his bow slung behind his back and his arms raised in surrender. “I apologize, Lethallan. I meant no secrecy. I was hunting my own meal when I heard your call.”

Rianeth raised an eyebrow. “I’m not believing _that_ story. No way you didn’t notice the dead-waking _noise_ my sister made when she killed that hart.”

“Oh would you--! I _killed it_ , that’s what matters,” Therilli shot back, getting to her feet and tying the blood-filled waterskin shut and then grabbing her sword. “But she’s right, stranger. If you are not from Clan Lavellan, who are you? What brings you here?”

“I am Nerion, of clan Sabrae. We have only recently come to the Free Marches. But my clan is very far from here. I have been sent more as a messenger than a Hunter.”

Rianeth pursed her lips, slowly relaxing her bow and returning the arrow to her quiver. “Speak, then. I am Rianeth of clan Lavellan. This is my younger sister, Therilli.”

Nerion slowly lowered his hands. “Has your clan received word that a Blight is spreading in the South?”

Therilli and her sister exchanged glances. “The Keeper said she felt a disturbance, but was no more forthcoming,” Therilli admitted.

“It is true. The Grey Wardens in the human kingdom of Ferelden have fallen, and it is quickly spreading northward. But there are two that remain, and they have called upon the Dalish for aid. That is why I am here.”

Rianeth sighed, seemingly disappointed that she wouldn’t be able to shoot someone that day. “Alright, your message may very well be important. I’ll… take you to see the Keeper. Our clan is moving soon, anyway.” She started walking away, then remembered the large hart they had just felled. “But, ah… only if you help us haul this big guy back to camp.”

Nerion smiled, a charming thing that lit up his face. “Of course. I am happy to aid you.”

Once they had the hart in a leather sling large enough to drag/carry through the woods, Nerion seemed to relax. “So, the two of you are sisters? You do look quite similar.”

They really did. They both had the same wood-toned skin, the same deep brown hair. Though Rianeth’s was cut short, cropped close to her skin on the side and longer on the top, compared to Therilli’s long, thick mane, braided and pinned up to keep it out of her face. Otherwise, they had very similar features, down to the shape of their noses and their distinctive bright blue-green eyes.

“I don’t think we’re similar at all,” Rianeth remarked, shifting the sling’s weight on her shoulder. “For one thing, I am _infinitely_ superior--”

Therilli threw a stick at her, and she ducked, throwing Nerion off-balance. “We follow different paths. She uses a bow, I use a sword. She follows Andruil, I follow Mythal. But yes, we look very similar.”

“Precious little Therilli’s always been chasing in my footsteps, you see--”

“I’m going to stab you.”

Nerion laughed, his eyes still on Rianeth’s back. “You two are _certainly_ sisters.”

Therilli followed his gaze and frowned, knowing what was happening. Yet another one her sister had charmed. She would have to add another scratch to the tally in her tent.

They came through a breach in the trees into the clearing where Clan Lavellan had made camp, the hart’s body swinging between them.

Almost immediately, several pairs of hands arrived to lift the animal from their shoulders, and Rianeth flexed her arms in relief, turning back to Nerion. “So what is happening in the south? You mentioned a Blight, but what else?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but many more questions interrupted him. Where he was from, what he had seen, how far he had come, how he did his hair, how pretty he was, was he going to marry Rianeth--

He seemed relieved when Keeper Istimaethoriel arrived, her presence breaking apart the gathered crowd.

“You come bearing grave news, Visitor. Come, join us at the fire.”

Nerion nodded, following the Keeper to the edge of camp, away from the children who were being sternly guided away by their elder siblings. The four of them sat down together, Istimaethoriel’s expression stern as always as she looked between the two sisters and Nerion.

“You are here regarding the Blight, yes?”

Therilli gasped, but it was Rianeth who spoke first. “You _knew_ of this, Keeper?!”

“Yes,” she answered matter-of-factly. “And news of it would have reached us eventually. But I decided that we were far enough away from its source that avoiding panic was more important than running from the Blight. But I see that is no longer possible.” She narrowed her eyes at Nerion. “Speak, child.”

He suddenly grew nervous under the Keeper’s gaze. “Our people are beholden to the ancient treaty with the Grey Wardens. They made contact with a clan that had taken up residence in the Brecilian forest and saved them from the curse of lycanthropy. I have come seeking Hunters to join the gathering army.”

Istimaethoriel frowned, looking away from him. “And I suppose you followed these sisters, thinking that they were prime candidates?”

“I would not think of--”

“Do not lie to me, boy.”

Nerion choked on his words, glancing toward Therilli, wordlessly looking for support.

She moved to argue, but Rianeth was already on her feet.

“If there is a Blight, then we should move to act! If Ferelden has fallen, like Nerion says, then it will not be _that_ long until it reaches the Free Marches. Our Hunters are skilled, Keeper. And this gives us the chance to prove it!”

The Keeper lifted her hand, and Rianeth fell silent, sinking back down onto the bench by the fire.

“The Blight is far from here, Nerion, and my Clan has had no part in its spread, unlike the Ferelden humans who ignored it and fought instead among themselves, or Zathrian who grew so burdened by revenge that he put his people in harm’s way.”

By now, many Hunters had arrived at the fireside, hovering just within earshot of their conversation. Therilli could hear them whispering among themselves, of human politics and the great arguments that had erupted between clans at the last Arlathven.

“You will ignore the call for aid?!” Nerion exclaimed, his voice rising.

The Keeper gave him an icy look that silenced him. “I am not ignoring it. A Blight is a danger to us all. I know this. But we are not a large clan, child. We have few soldiers to spare for the Grey Warden’s army. I can send no more than a handful, or we leave ourselves unprotected.”

From the shadows, an older Hunter stepped forward, scars running through his tattoos of Elgar’nan. “I will join this army. These Fereldens are foolish, but I would not let such foolishness reach us here.”

Another stepped forward. “My bow is ready for darkspawn, Keeper. I am ready to fight an enemy evil enough to warrant no restraint.”

All were Hunters. Indispensable. Important. Therilli should go. She should join them, test her sword against the Blight.

But, as always, Rianeth was on her feet before Therilli could say anything, her back arched in the fading light, her bow before her. “I am ready, Keeper. The beasts of the Free Marches have not presented enough of a challenge. Frankly, this is the perfect opportunity. If I had stayed any longer, I imagine I would have gotten bored.”

She shot a wink over her shoulder at Nerion, and Therilli felt her blood run cold. Not out of jealousy for her flirtation with Nerion, but something else. She was getting left behind again, wasn’t she?

The Keeper got to her feet, placing a hand on Nerion’s shoulder, her expression softening. “We are providing the aid as promised. We will welcome you to our camp for the night. Partake of our food, sleep in our protection. And when morning comes… my Hunters will part with you. Mythal guide you, child.”

“ _Ma serannas_ , Keeper,” he said, smiling. “These five alone will be the arrows of an entire army, I am certain.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As soon as the evening meal had concluded, Therilli confronted her sister in their tent. “I should go, too.”

Rianeth sighed, setting the bowl of oil she had been applying to her bow aside. “Therilli, please.”

“You _knew_ I was going to step forward, and jumped up before I could! It’s a wonder I managed to become a Hunter at all!”

“I didn’t stop you because I wanted to overshadow you. I only--”

“So you _did_ stop me on purpose!” Therilli shouted, kicking her sister’s ironbark armor out of its neat stack, sending it scattering across the tent’s dirt floor.

“I protected you!”

“I can protect myself!”

“I _know_ you can!” Rianeth shouted back, getting to her feet, her bow sliding, forgotten, off of her lap. “That’s why _you_ have to stay.”

She looked out of their tent’s open flap, to where Nerion was making arrows from the wood and flint stones their clan had provided for him. “Dark times are coming, Therilli. Can’t you sense it? It’s more than the Blight. The unrest is spreading everywhere. The Keeper is right. We can’t spare too many Hunters, not when the shemlens can turn on us at any moment. They will need _you_ to protect them. That’s what you do, isn’t it?”

She smiled sadly, and for the first time since they were children and Rianeth had almost fallen off a cliff into a ravine, Therilli could see _fear_ in her sister’s eyes. “My dear sister, protector of Clan Lavellan.” She took her sister by the upper arm, locking her gaze. “Promise me, Therilli. Promise that you will protect the clan while I’m gone. No matter what.”

“I…” Therilli grimaced, looking down her sister’s grip on her arm. “I promise, Sister. I will not let Clan Lavellan fall. But when you come home, I’m taking a break.”

Rianeth laughed. “I would expect no less.” She kicked at Therilli’s kneecaps, laughing when she crumpled, then grabbed her ankles and yanked, until both sisters were wrestling on the floor, laughing.

When finally Rianeth won, keeping Therilli pinned in a Dalish knot for a full ten seconds, she smacked Therilli on the ass and wriggled free, chuckling. “Come now, Sister. It’s time to rest. We’ve both got a great deal to prepare for.”

They returned to their respective tasks-- polishing bows, making arrows, sharpening swords and daggers, reinforcing shields, repairing holes in the tent… and then blowing out the lamp and tucking into their individual bedrolls.

Therilli did not fall to sleep for a long time, as uneasy as she felt. Rianeth had said that she had taken her spot in the group joining the army against the Blight because she needed her to stay behind and protect the clan. And perhaps it had been partially true.

But still, Therilli was certain that Rianeth still wanted to protect her. Although she was a full eighteen years old, Rianeth still treated her like a child. It had infuriated her for many years, but she knew that Rianeth felt responsible for her. After all, they were the only close relatives they had to each other.

Clan Lavellan had been kind to them, but they _did_ look quite different from the others, thanks to their darker complexions. Their grandmother had been a mage born in a clan that stayed farther north, near Antiva, and had come to Clan Lavellan to become the Keeper’s First, and then the Keeper. Only after her death had Istimaethoriel taken her place. But then Therilli’s parents had fallen when a dragon suddenly appeared, attacking their hunting party. And their grandfather had fallen to illness only a few years earlier.

Truly, Rianeth was protecting her, as much as she was protecting the clan. And it irritated her. She only stopped arguing about it because Rianeth’s fear had stopped her. For her skilled but arrogant sister to sense something amiss… there was something very wrong indeed.

Eventually the exhaustion of the day’s hunt overtook her, and she drifted into the Beyond.

When she awoke, her sister was gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the days after the Hunters had left to join the Grey Wardens’ army, Therilli threw herself into her duties to the clan. Officially, she was a Hunter like all the others who were neither keepers nor followed Vir Atish’an. But many of her people had given her a new title-- Guardian.

She stood watch much more than any other youth, and accompanied any of her clan who went to the human cities to do trade. There was more than one purpose to this. She was keeping her promise to her sister, of course. But also, the human cities were the only places she could hear word of the Blight, of what was happening in the south.

“They say that there was an elven revolt in Denerim!”

“No reason to worry about that in Kirkwall, though. The city’s built to handle it.”

“The elves, maybe, but Kirkwall’s got its own problems, what with the Qunari ship being stranded there. I know _I’d_ be nervous if there were a bunch of those horned beasts around.”

“And what of the dwarves! There’s been no word and no trade out of Orzammar for weeks! If something doesn’t change soon, the lyrium supply’ll dry up! And then we’ll have a _mage_ revolt on our hands!”

Of course, that was followed by an apparent _actual_ mage revolt in Ferelden’s Kinloch hold. Demons had been summoned, Templar and mage alike caught in the carnage. It had only stopped when the Grey Wardens had interfered.

In the Free Marches, it seemed as if everything was business as usual. No one was even considering sending aid to Ferelden. Not with civil war wracking the Bannorn as their nobility struggled against their king. Or… not the king. The king was dead. The man on the throne was his murderer.

...Not a murderer? Oh, Therilli hated human politics. They should just all decide on the truth and stick to it, not just make up whichever version suited them!

Still, she continued listening for rumors, information. Anything that could tell her that her sister was alright.

“They say that there’ve been Dalish gathering near Redcliffe. Practically an army!”

“Think they’re gonna try to take over Ferelden while it’s weak?”

“Maybe, but don’t think so. Those wildfolk may be crazy, but they ain’t stupid. What’s there to take over when there’s a bunch of Darkspawn tearing through? No, those knife-ears are there to fight the Blight. Or ‘least that’s what they’re telling everyone who asks. Just ‘honoring the Grey Wardens.’ But I think they’re just sitting pretty until the Blight’s over. _Then_ they’ll swoop in and take over.”

Therilli grimaced, hoping the group she was accompanying would finish their business soon.

“I hear the crown’s offering a hefty sum for killing Wardens, though. How’d they manage to get through?!”

“I hear the one in charge is practically a Qunari. Eight feet tall and big and strong as an ogre. Ugly as one, too.”

“Oh don’t tell me you believe those exaggerations! You’ve been talking to too many dwarven merchants.”

Therilli rolled her eyes, pushing her clan members forward. “Time to go.”

“You are not in _charge_ here, Therilli,” the older Dalish woman scoffed. “Just because you’re here as a _guard_ …”

“Oh look, a bunch of those tattooed nightmares! And clean ones, too. Think they got money?”

“No, we do not have money,” Therilli lied, pretending they hadn’t just sold a whole pack of furs only moments before. “Move along. We have no issue with humans.”

“Well, you’re about to, stinkin’ knife-eared wench!”

Therilli shot a glare at her clan members, who only made faces at her, sinking into the crowd.

“Oh, alright, I really didn’t want to have to do this…” she muttered, sliding one arm through the straps of her buckler and with the other retrieving her sword from its sheath as the group of thugs charged her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She slunk back into camp with a black eye, sending a _very_ rude gesture to the group that had left her to fend for herself as she entered.

She was otherwise fine, so she rejected any offers of aid, but her pride was certainly hurt.

The Keeper sat down next to her, resting her staff in the dirt. “What news do you bring, Da’len?”

Therilli tucked her knees in close, staring pensively into the flames. “Refugees from Ferelden are overwhelming the human cities. Many of them are refused jobs, so they turn to crime in order to make enough coin to survive. It was no surprise we were attacked today.”

The Keeper chuckled. “But you did not have to take them on yourself, Da’len.”

“I was fine,” Therilli argued.

The keeper shook her head, reaching out and pulling the pins out of Therilli’s hair, her thin, bony fingers gentle as they ran through it, braiding it again as she spoke. “You do not have to struggle so _hard_ to prove your strength, my child. There are few who doubt you. Even your sister, though she would not admit it.”

Therilli closed her eyes, her body relaxing against her will at the feeling of hands in her hair. “I just cannot stand feeling useless, Keeper. And in these days where we are not fighting the Blight and I _could_ be… I am old enough, strong enough… the waiting is maddening.”

“Your time will come, Da’len. There will be a day when your strength will protect us all. You did not just choose Mythal to guide you. She also chose you. And you will understand why in time.”

“In the meantime, I plan on becoming as strong as possible. My next goal is to wrestle a bear. I’m working my way up to dragon.”

Istimaethoriel slid the last pin back into place, then patted Therilli’s head. “Do you plan on besting the Archdemon in single combat?”

“Absolutely. See if Rianeth can overshadow _that._ ”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The clan moved several more times while the Blight raged through Ferelden. More and more humans poured into the cities of the Free Marches, and tensions rose. More and more bandits prowled the roads between cities, happily preying on the Dalish when they found them. Therilli was kept busy taking them down.

She was glad that Clan Lavellan kept to the east, quite a distance from Kirkwall and its Qunari. She had no qualms with the people themselves, but she was uncomfortable with the rumors. Tal-Vashoth warriors slaughtering wayward travelers without reason or mercy. A quiet Arishok who only rarely accepted negotiation. The peace was tentative, a well-stretched wire ready to snap at the smallest tension. 

But the more the Blight spread, the less word she could catch about events in Ferelden. Trade with the south had come completely to a halt, although Orzammar had supposedly opened its doors again. The Circle of Magi had been restored, much to the Templars’ chagrin, and the Arl of Redcliffe had survived a magical brush with death. The last she had heard before all word from Ferelden had stopped was that apparently the nobles had agreed upon a new king. Some “foolish bastard.” But after that… nothing.

The quiet made her nervous. It made _all_ of Clan Lavellan nervous. Though they had spent many years cultivating a more active relationship with the humans than many other clans, they pressed further into the wilderness to the north, away from the rising human populations, from the Templar’s ever-more-watchful eyes.

For days, then weeks, then months, there was no news, good or bad, from the Hunters that had gone south to stop the Blight. Their people continued their simple daily lives. Therilli learned to dance, her performance in the summer festival the talk of the clan. But still no news from the south.

No news at all, until the messenger came.

A shemlen, guiding a donkey pulling a small cart. She looked exhausted, more resigned than defensive when Therilli had held a sword to her throat.

“I take it I have found Clan Lavellan, then,” the woman had said. “I bring you news of your people. I’d take it to your Keeper, but I’m perfectly fine if I never get that far.”

Therilli froze, glancing between the woman and the cart. Something in the woman’s expression told her that when she looked inside of it, she wasn’t going to like what she saw.

“You… can go in. The Keeper will determine whether you can be trusted.” She lowered her sword, but she kept a tight grip on it. Something was wrong. Why a shemlen, and not her people?

She went to hunt, only managing to gather some elfroot before returning to the camp. But it had been a welcome distraction from her fears.

Not distraction enough.

When she returned to camp, the Keeper was waiting for her at the entrance to her tent, a pained expression on her face. And there was something in her hands, hard to make out in the dim light.

“That human brought us news of our people, Da’len.”

“Rianeth? What of Rianeth?!”

She closed her eyes, her hands shaking as she lifted the object to the moonlight, presenting it to Therilli.

A bow, masterfully shaped from yew wood and reinforced with ironbark, its several spider-silk bowstrings shining silver. She had seen that bow many, many times. Knew it almost as well as her own sword.

“No… no, it can’t be! She was our greatest Hunter! She was so much stronger than me, she couldn’t… she couldn’t fall!”

“None of the Dalish who fought the Archdemon survived, Da’len. Not of our clan, and not of any others. I am sorry.”

She pressed the bow into Therilli’s hands, but Therilli let it fall to the ground, staring wide-eyed at her Keeper. “What am _I_ going to do with her bow?!”

“I do not know, Da’len.” The Keeper patted her hair, just like she always had when she was a child, then disappeared further into the camp. Leaving Therilli alone with nothing. Nothing but her sister’s bow, her grief, and her memory.

_Promise me, Therilli. Promise that you will protect the clan while I’m gone. No matter what._

She had made that promise… almost an entire year before, to the day. And now it could _never_ expire. _Protect the clan while I’m gone._

But she was never coming back.


	4. Naiyah Hawke- Bruises

Naiyah looked down at the amulet Flemeth had given her as the ship rocked and tossed through the fierce ocean waves. It looked simple enough-- just gold with a single ruby in the center, but there had to be more to it than that. She just couldn’t tell what it was.

“Hey… nice jewel you got, there,” she heard whispered to her in the darkness of the hold.

She rolled her eyes, tucking it back into the inside pocket of her armor. “Back off, buddy, or you’ll regret it.”

“Awww… no generosity for your fellow refugees?”

“Not any refugees who are trying to steal from me.”

She heard him move towards her and struck backwards with her elbow, cracking it right into his skull. He collapsed instantly, unconscious.

She winced, looking down at her arms. They were surprisingly weak now, and she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps because she wasn’t eating properly?

Curious, she began unstrapping her armor, pulling off her leather gloves and lifting her breastplate over her head, setting it in the small space between herself and her sister as quietly as she could.

But Bethany must have been as restless as she was, because she sat up, yawning. “Naiyah?” What’s wrong?”

A cloud moved away from the moon, filtering through the grate to the hold enough to illuminate Naiyah’s body, to reveal… bruises.

Huge, almost entirely black and purple bruises, from her shoulder all the way down to her fingertips, so completely that her arms were almost each one whole bruise.

Bethany’s eyes widened, and she reached out to press her finger to her sister’s flesh, and Naiyah winced from the contact.

“It _is_ a bruise… Maker’s breath, Naiyah, what happened?!”

“Shhh…” Naiyah warned, gesturing toward their mother as she began rolling down her linen sleeves to hide them. “There’s no need to worry Mother further.”

“ _Worry_ ? Bethany whispered, aghast. “You’ve turned _purple_ , Sister!”

“I know,” Naiyah frowned, flexing her shoulders. “I honestly don’t remember getting injured like this. There was the wound I got during Ostagar, but that’s almost completely healed, thanks to Wynne. Did some of the darkspawn manage to hit me while we were running and my armor just took most of the blow?”

Bethany’s eyebrows furrowed, the concern only seeming to intensify. “Maybe you should start using a shield, like Aveline does.”

Naiyah snorted. “What, and leave behind the fear in my enemies’ eyes when they see me pull out a weapon longer than they are tall? I think not.”

“You and your _weapon_ take up far too much space, anyway. It’s cramped in here enough as it is with so many people!”

“Would you rather we were defenseless?”

“ _I_ am never defenseless,” Bethany shot back, wiggling her fingers in Naiyah’s face.

“Yes, well, we can’t all have magic powers.” She leaned back against Muffin’s side, the dog barely noticing her weight. “Try to get some sleep, Sister.”

“Easier said than done when the ocean is determined to make us sick.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When finally they reached Kirkwall’s Gallows and spilled out onto the docks, Naiyah Hawke had decided that she would live a happy life if she never stepped inside a ship again.

The press of bodies against hers at all times had been uncomfortable enough, but it had only been magnified when a storm had blown through and everything got _wet_ . It had been cold, dirty, smelly, and altogether unpleasant in every manner. And she was going to need a new weapon. The rain hadn't halted long enough for her to keep the sword dry, and now the blade was beginning to _rust_. Had he not been smashed into dust in Ostagar, her captain would have been furious.

Stepping into the sunlight, Aveline held her hand up to shade her eyes, still adjusting. “It’s a damned good thing we finally got here. I was afraid you were going to start a brawl in that hold just because you were bored.”

“Oh I did. Just waited until you were asleep. We were thinking of playing Wicked Grace, instead, but the only deck of cards anyone had were completely soaked because of the storm. Hard to play fair when everyone KNOWS the swords are the ones with the big blue stains.”

“ _Please_ tell me you weren’t gambling the whole time we were sailing.”

“Alright. ‘Aveline, I was not gambling the whole time we were sailing.’”

Aveline rolled her eyes. “If you’re going to lie about it, can you try not to be so obvious?”

Naiyah grinned, then took a deep breath and confronted the scene before her.

The refugees were crowded around the Gallows docks, the air a cacophony of shouting, whining, children crying.

“No, we’re _not_ letting anyone in! You’ll just have to wait for a bit, then get right back on those boats back to Ferelden.”

Next to her, Naiyah heard her mother gasp. “Back? We can’t go back!”

Bethany and Leandra pressed forward through the crowd to petition the guard, just like everyone else, but Naiyah hung back, taking in the scenery. The huge chains hanging over the harbor still visible from the dock they stood on. The enormous crying twin slaves carved into the cliffs. The glint of brass statues through the grey stone.

“Something wrong, Hawke?” Aveline asked.

“Yes… something.”

She wasn’t sure what. Of course, Kirkwall’s sightseeing roster wasn’t the most encouraging by itself, but there was something else that set her on edge, that made her throat fill with bile.

She shook her head. “I am just imagining it. Come on, we’d better do something before my mother gets thrown into the harbor.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three days later, Naiyah was still tapping her foot in the Gallows courtyard, waiting for her supposed “uncle” to come and get them into the city.

She was kind of looking forward to this “estate” her mother kept talking about. Not that their home in Lothering hadn’t been _cute_ , but… it wasn’t exactly the lap of luxury. Lots of dirt. Unending dirt. And spiderwebs. 

Though to be honest, she’d probably mess up a fancy mansion. At least when she’d swung around a greatsword back in Ferelden there wasn’t much of a loss when she broke stuff. Like, “oh no! The bench we found thrown into the river has a giant slash through it! What a tragedy!”

She flexed her arms, feeling for the same strain from earlier. Fortunately, the time they’d wasted waiting for their uncle to show up had at least given the bruises time to fade. They were uglier now, of course, the purple-black turned yellow-green-blue, but less painful. She still wasn’t sure how she’d gotten them, though.

“Wait… is that him?!” Bethany shouted, and Naiyah forgot about her bruises, getting to her feet. She peered over the balcony they were sitting on, watching the approach of the man her sister was pointing to.

Well, he was certainly a relative of their mother, based on their similar features, but he didn’t _look_ particularly wealthy. His clothes looked ragged, and his haircut uneven. _And_ he seemed nervous as he looked around, even before Bethany and Leandra were running to him.

But as soon as they reached him, he forced a smile, opening his arms. “Leandra! Damn, girl, the years have not been kind to you!”

“Speak for yourself,” Naiyah snorted, lagging behind her family. “You look like you’ve been dragged out of the sewer.”

But her mother either didn’t hear her or chose to ignore her, because she only threw her arms around her brother in relief.

“I, ah, wasn’t expecting this,” Gamlen admitted, still embracing her. “What with the Blight, your husband dead… I’d thought you were Ferelden for life.”

Naiyah leaned against the wall, her hand on Muffin’s collar, watching this unfold. She shot a glance to Aveline, who looked about as impressed as she was. Bethany, by contrast, still seemed hopeful. But that hope quickly died as Leandra weaseled more details out of Gamlen, which concluded in him admitting that the reason he’d taken so long was in order to convince some interested parties to be willing to pay their way into the city. Since their so-called “estate” was apparently long-sold to pay off gambling debts.

“See what gambling gets you, Hawke?” Aveline pointed out.

“I said this once, I’ll say it again. I never actually gambled anything of value. It was all for entertainment _only_.”

“A-anyway,” Gamlen stammered, avoiding the glare that Naiyah was sending him, “they might be willing to help… if you’re not too delicate about the company you keep.”

Naiyah’s stomach grumbled. More like a lion’s roar, really. If she didn’t get some food soon, skeletons were going to be the only company they kept.

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be fun! I always wanted to see the low side of town. Life on the edge, testing the limits of authority… it’s a dream come true.”

“The sad thing about what you’re saying is that I’m pretty sure you’re not joking,” Bethany remarked, looking at her sidelong. “So what exactly do you mean, Uncle?”

“There are a couple of people who may be interested in paying your way into the city. The catch is… you and your sister will have to work off your debt. For a year.”

“A year!” Leandra shrieked.

“It’s the best I could do! A bunch of refugees won’t find better anywhere else, trust me.” He turned to Naiyah, who was still leaning against the wall and glaring at him over her crossed arms. “You can work for Meeran, the head of the mercenary company, or Athenril, for smugglers. Now I know what you’re about to say, but they’re about as clean as you’ll find in this city. They don’t deal in drugs, children, or slavery.”

Naiyah sighed, straightening and looking around the courtyard for the people who seemed to match his descriptions. Ah yes… one mercenary and… yes, that elf looked like a smuggler type.

“And what of me?” Aveline piped up. “I will not allow others to incur debts on my behalf.”

“Can’t see that it makes a difference. You look like a lady who can pull her own weight,” Gamlen shot back.

“Then you’ll come with us,” Leandra insisted. 

“I… have no real option,” Aveline answered. “Thank you.”

Naiyah sighed, then faced her two options, thinking. She knelt, running her hands through Muffin’s fur. “What do _you_ think, boy? Do we _kill_ for our living, or do we _steal_?”

Muffin barked twice, and Naiyah grinned wickedly. “We _do_ like to kill, don’t we?”

Bethany kicked her. “You sound like a villain.”

Naiyah snorted, getting back to her feet. “Oh, alright. Smugglers it is, then.”

“Really? I thought you always wanted to be a mercenary?” Bethany asked, raising an eyebrow as she followed Naiyah to where Athenril was waiting.

“And I’ll have all the time in the world to become one… after this year is up.”

To be honest, although _she_ would have chosen the mercenaries… she didn’t like the idea of Bethany as one. It was too up-front, too flashy. She’d get caught as an apostate mage immediately. At least smuggling was subtle. _Naiyah_ wasn’t subtle, but three days in Kirkwall had taught her that you had to swing a _very_ big blade for anyone to even blink an eye. But if a Templar saw fire coming out of your ass, you were done in a second.

She picked her way over the corpses of the men they had killed earlier as a personal favor to the guards who had so kindly let them into the Gallows to await Gamlen’s arrival, coming to a stop in front of the elven woman.

She turned around, immediately evaluating the siblings with her gaze. “So you must be Gamlen’s niece. Interesting.”

Naiyah felt her pulse jump. She wasn’t used to seeing elves up close. There hadn’t been many in Lothering. It was far too small to have an alienage, but plenty big enough to keep the Dalish away. Their wide eyes and high, sharp features were always a bit disorienting to her. Not in a bad way, necessarily, but it always required some adjusting. And Athenril seemed plenty aware of it.

“I don’t know what he told you about us, but he certainly told us a great deal about you.”

“He didn’t say anything about me, did he?” Bethany asked, hiding her staff a bit behind her back.

“Enough to pique our interest, provided you can justify your uncle’s confidence. After all, it’s not every day we’re offered an apostate’s services.”

“So you _do_ know about me.”

“Don’t worry. We can keep the Templars off your back while you’re with us. Wouldn’t be the first time. But a warrior-mage duo seems like a perfect balance to me. Easily worth the price.”

Naiyah glanced at Bethany, who shrugged. “Technically being a mercenary is more legal, but I don’t like the way that Meeran was looking at us as we came in.”

“Do what you want, but this sounds fishy to me,” Aveline piped up.

Naiyah rolled her eyes, reaching out for a handshake. “Alright, Athenril, I’m in. What do you want me to do?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Naiyah hefted her shiny new greataxe in her hands, spinning it around as they made their way through Lowtown, following Gamlen.

“That was easier than I thought!” she cheered, narrowly avoiding taking out a chunk of wall. “Got Athenril’s money back _and_ replaced my rusty sword. We should hold blades to cowards’ throats more often! Nice one by the way, Aveline.”

Aveline ducked another one of Naiyah’s swings. “I was becoming impatient with the whole business,” she answered, though sounding pleased with herself. “And… hungry.”

“Oh, once we reach Gamlen’s hovel, I’ll see about catching us a giant spider for my famous ‘giant spider stew.’ It’s delicious.”

“Don’t let her fool you,” Bethany piped up. “It’s disgusting. I can’t believe she convinced me to try it.”

“Hey, it’s nutritious! And we’re going to need the nutrients if we’re turning to a life of crime!”

“Say that a bit louder, would you?!” Aveline complained.

“Oh, please. This whole city is as corrupt as an Archdemon.”

“And this is what I’ve brought us to,” Leandra sighed. “And that you have almost no protest to this is what disturbs me most.”

Naiyah slid her new axe into the straps on her armor and put her hands on her hips. “Oh, it’ll be alright, Mother. I’ll keep Bethany safe, and we’re not doing anything that bad. I might be a naughty, naughty girl, but even I have morals. Maybe I can do something good for this place. Start from the bottom and work our way up.” She grimaced when Gamlen came to a stop in front of a particularly dirty-looking hovel. “The very… very bottom.”

“Oh, don’t be like that, you ungrateful--” he started toward Naiyah, fist raised, but Leandra stopped him.

“Apparently it’s my daughters’ strength that is going to be paying for our living for the next year,” she reminded him. “But you _could_ do with some humility, Naiyah. Your uncle is giving us a place to stay. Right now there is little else we could ask for.”

Naiyah grimaced at Gamlen. “I’m sorry, Mother. I’m just disappointed by our options. Trying to look on the bright side of things.” She sighed. “Go ahead and go inside. I’ll go to the market and buy us something for dinner.”

“ _Not_ giant spider legs,” Bethany warned. “Or I’ll summon a demon and put it in you.”

Leandra grabbed Bethany by the arm. “Do _not_ even joke about that. You’re as bad as your sister, I swear!”

Naiyah watched her family go into the hovel, then spun on her heel and began heading back through the city. But she stopped when she heard footsteps next to her. She glanced over at Aveline with a raised eyebrow. “I don’t think it takes two people to buy dinner.”

Aveline shrugged. “I want to get to know the city a bit better, while it’s still daylight. I don’t relish getting ambushed by thugs as soon as I get lost. So I’d like to nip that in the bud sooner rather than later.”

“Solid plan.” Naiyah tapped her fingers at her side, taking in the city. The bad feeling from before hadn’t abated, but she was starting to get used to it. She ran her finger over the wall, frowning down at the dust.

“So why _are_ you so gung-ho about this whole situation?”

Naiyah wiped the dust onto her pants. “Well there’s no point in complaining about it. Might as well embrace it.”

“There’s more to it,” Aveline complained, watching her as she stopped to rummage through a stack of crates, pulling out a pair of torn trousers and frowning at them.

“What’s there to tell? That I’m immensely disappointed in my noble parentage? That I kind of hated being a soldier and taking orders? I thought you’d figured those things out already.”

“I suppose I did… would you _stop_ going through random people’s stuff?!”

“Huh?” Naiyah turned around, a small coin purse in her hand. “Well I need to get money for supper from _somewhere_.”

“I just wonder how someone from such a noble family becomes so… twisted.”

Naiyah hefted the coins in her hand, frowning. “You kind of stop respecting the law when the law is so determined to hunt down and imprison your father and sister. And then just when I start to think maybe the people in charge deserve my obedience… the great hero betrays the king and lets the Blight free to destroy my hometown.” She stuffed the coin bag into her shirt, turning back to Aveline. “I guess you could say I’m a bit jaded.”

“I… suppose you have a point.”

“I always do,” Naiyah answered, continuing down the street.

“But you could change it, if you tried. The system itself isn’t corrupt, it’s the people running it. Maybe if there was someone who _cared_ in charge, it would work a lot better.”

Naiyah snorted, pulling a vial of liquid out of her pack and dropping it into a barrel tucked into the corner of a building. “Tell you what, Aveline. You become the person in charge, and I’ll see about following the rules.” She paused a beat. “But only if you keep my sister _out_ of it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Nice job on that dead drop. The client was pleased,” Athenril said, dropping some silvers into Naiyah’s hand.

“It seems a waste of my destructive abilities to be distributing _extremely_ pungent alcohols in Lowtown.”

Athenril laughed. “Still testing you. And you passed. Ready for something a bit better suited for your talents?”

“I’m assuming you mean my axe and not my stunning good looks?”

“A bit of both, really,” Athenril replied with a smirk.

“Wait wait wait,” Bethany piped up. “When did you do a dead drop? I thought we weren’t starting work until today?”

“Surprise, Sister.”

Athenril lifted a hand to silence them both. “We managed to acquire a box of Orlesian delicacies that the Dwarven Merchants’ Guild just can’t _wait_ to get their hands on. The only problem is the Coterie. We’re pretty sure they’re on our tail, and I can’t afford to let that box get taken. I need the two of you to make sure it reaches its destination safely. You got that?”

“And what do _you_ do?” Naiyah asked, raising an eyebrow. “Boss lady, I mean.”

Athenril grinned, rolling a gold coin through her fingers. “Who do you think gets the goods in the first place?”

“Attractive.”

Bethany smacked her in the back. “Gross.”

“Look, get the goods from the meeting place on the map to the Guild and this coin right here is yours. Well, not yours. It goes toward your debt.”

“Oh good! We’ll be off, then!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To be honest, Hawke hadn’t actually known what the Coterie was when Athenril had told them about it. She just didn’t want to look foolish for asking. But getting attacked by it was incredibly educational.

“We’re surrounded!” Bethany shouted, releasing a blast of chain lightning that arced through several of the rogues that surrounded them, artfully missing her sister.

“Well, now that they’ve seen you use magic, we can’t let any of them _live_.” Naiyah swung her axe down into her nearest opponent, satisfied with the combination _slash_ and _crunch_ sounds that it made through the flesh and bone. “So may as well go hog-wild.”

“As if we’d let you just get away!” another rogue shouted, swiping at her back with his tiny dagger, but Naiyah dodged, grabbing his wrist and twisting it until the knife fell away. She brought her pommel down on his skull, then turned to the next.

“Yes, yes, because we’re trespassing on the Coterie’s territory. Haven’t you ever learned the benefits of a little healthy competition? No?”

She swung her axe in an arc, sending the three rogues that had been ganging up against her crashing into a wall. Finally, the carnage was over, and Naiyah blew her bangs out of her face. “Right. You keep going to Hightown, Beth, since you’re not quite as covered in blood. I’m just going to go through these guys and… well, steal everything off of their corpses.”

Bethany shrugged. “It’s not like they can complain. And _they_ attacked _us._ But it is pretty odd that no one alerted the guard.”

Naiyah pulled a chainmail shirt off of one of the bodies, holding it up to the moonlight and considering it. “Nah, as far as they’re concerned we were doing them a favor.”

Bethany shook her head and grabbed the box, partially using magic to compensate for its weight as she strode off.

~~~~~~~~a few weeks later~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hawke looked up at the massive tree the elves called _vhenadahl_ , tapping her fingers at her side, ignoring the passing elves who were giving her odd looks.

“You’re looking at it like you want to climb it,” she heard from behind her, and turned to see Athenril looking at her, hands on her hips.

“You caught me. Would I get in trouble?”

“You’d get the elves mad, but let’s face it, who are they going to complain to about it? The city guard? You could definitely climb it if you wanted to.”

“I don’t feel like making unnecessary enemies, so I’ll pass. But the temptation’s there,” Naiyah replied, fighting a smirk and crossing her arms. “So? Why just me today? You don’t want our sisterly services?”

Moving to the tree, Athenril sat down between the curling roots, looking up at Hawke. “I have your sister working solo today. Just a transport, nothing serious.”

A muscle jumped in Hawke’s jaw, but she forced herself to stay diffident. “Ah, she’ll be fine. She used to walk right into the Chantry, not a care in the world. She knows how to keep her secret.” She sat down next to Athenril, playing with a glass bauble that hung from one of the _vhenadahl_ ’s branches in front of her face. “But you didn’t answer my question. What am _I_ doing today?”

“You’re with me, actually.”

Naiyah sat up straight, instantly intrigued. “Oh, getting your hands dirty, are you?”

Athenril laughed, tossing a pile of clothes onto her lap. “Any smuggling ring that wants to operate outside the Coterie has to start somewhere. And now you get to see how _I_ started.”

Lifting the clothing into the air, Naiyah realized what was happening. “No _way_.”

“Oh yes, Naiyah Hawke. It’s time to play prostitute. Lure in some _really_ big fish.”

Hawke scowled. “I haven’t worn a dress since I was a child. I don’t know if I’m even going to be able to walk in this.”

Athenril got to her feet, an expression crossing her face Hawke couldn’t quite discern, then disappearing before she could be sure she’d seen it. Not just resolve, but vengeance, in a way. An almost wicked smile. “Use that. Men are lured in by girls they think are helpless.”

Still scowling at the dress, Hawke accepted the hand Athenril was offering her and got to her feet. “I wonder how much armor I can fit under this thing without anyone noticing…”

“More than you’d think, once you get good at it,” Athenril replied with a smirk. “I thought you’d prefer I give this job to you instead of your sister. Not that she wouldn’t be just as good at it.”

Hawke grimaced at the idea of Bethany in the same crimson fabric, pretending to be helpless so that wealthy merchants and nobles would be distracted enough to leave their goods unprotected. “Thank you for that. Let’s just get this over with before I change my mind.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hawke tripped over the hem of the floor-length dress yet again and almost swore, but forced herself not to. She only batted her eyelashes at the middle-aged man who ran over to take her elbow, quickly evaluating his wealth. _Yes, this is a good enough target._

“Oh, be careful, young lady! It would be a shame for a face as lovely as yours to meet the ground!”

Out of the corner of her eye, Hawke saw Athenril move toward the man’s cart of goods, in her own dress, digging through the wares and pulling a few out and stuffing it under her skirt. She was _incredibly_ efficient.

“Oh thank you, ser,” Hawke answered, slurring her words slightly for emphasis. “I just don’t know _what_ I would do… the men at the Rose are just so brutish… it is sweet to meet someone so kind.”

Letting go of her elbow, the man stepped aside, but his eyes swept her figure with such deliberate speed that she felt her stomach twist.

“The Rose? Surely you are too… valuable for such an establishment?”

His hand reached toward her again, and she fought the urge to reach for the shortsword she had tucked into her sash and hidden in the folds of her skirt.

“Oh, how much value?” she asked, ignoring his eyes dropping to the deep plunge of her neckline.

She did not get an answer, since a crash came from the alley just behind his cart and a very large rat came running out with a gold necklace in its teeth.

“That is valuable, you rascal!” the man shouted, turning toward it. Unfortunately, that direction was the same one Athenril was standing in, a whole crate of the man’s goods in her hands.

“Worry none, good sir! I will recover your goods!” Hawke shouted, whipping the sword out and running after the rodent.

“Wait, young… lady… where did you get that sword?!”

Her diversion had done the trick, as ridiculous as she probably looked, chasing after a rat in a floor-length dress. “Fear not! I’ve got this!”

And then the man was chasing after _her_ , instead. This was going better than she’d hoped!

She gave chase through Hightown’s streets, pushing carts out of her way, crashing into unsuspecting shoppers, tipping over crates of vegetables. Basically, making as big a commotion as she possibly could. And it was working, too. Even a couple of the city guard were running after her, meaning that the man’s goods-- and likely some other merchants’-- were almost entirely unprotected.

She ran the rat down, driving her sword directly through its skull, pinning its wriggling body to the ground. Once it went still, she reached down and retrieved the necklace from its teeth, blood running down her fingers as she held it out to the man.

“Here, good ser.”

He took it back, looking aghast. “You… are not a prostitute, are you?”

Hawke shook her head. “I fooled you, though.”

“Were you planning on assassinating me?”

“In broad daylight?! Of course not! I don’t even know who you are,” she laughed, and laughed even more at his insulted expression.

He wiped the rat blood off of the necklace, grimacing as he slid it into the pocket of his vest. “Well, you _are_ very good at retrieving stolen objects. I suppose… if I have need of such a thing, I should keep you in mind.”

Fighting to turn her smirk into a delighted smile, Hawke nodded. “I would appreciate it.”

She turned to the guard still looking over the man’s shoulder and shot him a dazzling smile. “I’m _so_ sorry for the mess, guardsman. I tried to look suitable for Hightown, and instead I’ve just made a mess.”

The guard just pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. “Just don’t do it again. And next time you decide to _help_ , just leave it to us.”

“Not a problem, ser. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve still got some shopping to do.”

She waited until the crowd had dispersed, then took plenty of extra time to wander around the market, chatting with Worthy, the rune craftsman, running her fingers over Orlesian silks, holding golden amulets to her throat and asking the salesmen how she looked… she was having fun with this, honestly.

Only once the sunlight had begun to fade and she seemed to have been forgotten in the crowd of the marketplace did she slide out of sight, removing the crimson dress and adjusting the linen shirt she was wearing underneath.

She stuffed the dress into her bag, next to the vegetables she had purchased from the vendor whose crates she had tipped over, then folded the flap over and made her way back to Lowtown, where no one even looked at her.

When she returned to the alienage, Athenril was waiting for her, sitting in the branches high up in the vhenadahl, kicking her feet.

“You put on quite the show,” she remarked, clearly amused. “Gave me plenty of time to get enough goods to put us in business for a month. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you enjoyed that.”

“It’s never going to work again, you know. I think I made a bit _too_ much of an impression.”

She moved to a spot just under Athenril’s perch in the tree, holding her arms out.

Raising an eyebrow, Athenril slid off of the branch, landing perfectly in Hawke’s grasp.

As soon as Hawke let her go, and she was on her feet, Athenril dusted off her pants and grinned at her. “That’s why I hired you, you know. The Coterie would call me crazy for hiring you. You couldn’t find ‘subtle’ if you walked right into it. But _I_ know how to make use of it.”

“Thanks?” Hawke opened her bag and held out the dress, but Athenril shook her head.

“Keep it. It’s far too big for me. And I swore I was never going to do that again.” She turned away, looking out over Lowtown. “We make a good team, Hawke.”

“I got that feeling.”

Turning back to her, Athenril’s eyes glinted in the fading sunlight. “You have a talent for getting people’s attention, Hawke. There’s something about you that draws everyone’s eye, no matter where you are. And it’s not beauty, though there’s no arguing that you have that. It’s something else.”

“Is this the part where you confess your love for me?”

“Don’t push it,” Athenril snorted, walking past her. “I’m just telling you why you’re useful. As long as you keep doing that, we make good business. You draw everyone’s eye, and no one even notices those of us in the shadow. Including your sister.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Naiyah returned to her uncle’s hovel, her mother hurried to her side, looking worried as ever. “You’re back! Where is Bethany? She said she was working today! Why didn’t she come back with you?”

“Bethany’s an adult, now, Mother. She can handle jobs on her own.”

Said as if she _hadn’t_ gone to investigate her sister’s mission almost the instant she’d left Athenril’s side. She’d only stopped herself at the last second because she knew that Bethany would be _furious_ if she found out that Naiyah had followed her. Complaining that she didn’t trust her abilities, that she wasn’t a child anymore, blah blah blah.

“Carver was an adult, too,” Leandra scoffed, going back to the table and angrily peeling carrots.

Naiyah pushed down the stab of guilt and sat down on the dirt floor next to Muffin, scratching his neck. “I brought some more vegetables for supper, Mother.”

“Not stolen, I hope.”

“No! I _bought_ them.”

“Oh good, I’m glad you still have _some_ morals left in you.”

“...most of them.”

Her mother glared at her, and Naiyah laughed. She got to her feet, wrapping her arms around her mother’s shoulders. “If you do nothing but worry, your heart won’t be able to take it. You raised a pair of strong daughters, Mother. Have a bit more faith in us. Have a bit more faith in yourself.”

“And I suppose you _weren’t_ responsible for the disturbance in Hightown this morning?”

Naiyah winced. “What _disturbance_?”

“Your uncle mentioned it. Some prostitute running after a rat, he said. And then a wealthy merchant returned to his cart to find almost all of his goods gone.”

“And how would my _dear_ uncle know about that, I wonder? Since this disturbance took place _so_ near the brothel.”

“So it _was_ you!”

The door swung open and Bethany slunk in, sighing heavily. “Oh, you’re home, Sister.”

Naiyah crossed her arms, nodding toward her. “See? She’s fine.”

“Just exhausted. I had to keep an ice spell going _all day_ just so that some Orlesian dessert could reach its destination in good condition. All the while making sure no one noticed I was doing it!”

She strode through toward their “bedroom,” discarding her staff, pack, and belt as she went. “Athenril’s as good as her word, though. I passed by a pair of Templars and I thought for _sure_ they were going to catch me, when suddenly a group of street urchins ran up, swearing they’d caught an apostate! The Templars ran after them and I just kept walking.”

She came back out, running a brush through her black hair. “I wonder how she got so well-connected?”

“The right hands in the right pockets, I suppose,” Naiyah shrugged, pulling a head of cabbage out of her bag. “And a skill for reading people.”

Exhausted, they both helped their mother continue making supper, distracting Leandra from their illegal activities by discussing the latest news from Ferelden. Apparently groups of wildmen were coming out of the Brecilian Forest, claiming to have been former werewolves, freed from a curse by a Grey Warden. And it sounded far-fetched, but they all had bright yellow eyes, still.

After their meal, when their dingy household had retired to their rooms, Bethany sat down next to Naiyah on her mattress, looking concerned.

“You haven’t… had any new bruises, have you?”

Shaking her head, Naiyah grabbed the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head, holding her arms out to her sister. “Perfectly fine. There’s a bunch of thugs in this town, but nothing all that tough. No new marks since the darkspawn.”

Bethany exhaled. “That’s good, then.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I guess you always throw yourself in harm’s way because of Carver and me. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t getting yourself hurt because of it.”

“Be that as it may, I’m fine, Beth. I don’t think anything’s enough of a challenge here to give me _those_ kinds of injuries. Unless I plan on getting in a fistfight with a Qunari.”

“Don’t say that with a twinkle in your eye.”

“What, why not?”

“Oh, go to sleep, you maniac.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Shut her up already!” the man whispered, immediately getting Hawke’s attention. “She’ll get the guard onto us, and then we won’t get any money out of her!”

Turning toward the sound of their voices, Naiyah saw the elven woman’s face, met her desperate gaze over a cloth gag. They were dragging her toward a cart, firm grips on her arms despite her kicking.

Naiyah stepped easily into their way, a hand on her hips. “What are you doing with that woman?”

“Woman? She’s just an elf.”

Naiyah’s blood ran cold, and her axe was in her hands before she’d even thought about it. “You wouldn’t be planning to sell that woman into _slavery_ , would you?”

The man sneered. “And why not? She’s fifty sovereigns into debt. Least this way we can get some of it back.”

The other one eyed her axe. “What’re you gonna do about it, Ferelden scum?”

Hawke heard Aveline step up next to her, though there was resignation in her voice. “Release the woman, or we’ll get the guard.”

Both men laughed. “The guard, huh? We’ll be _long_ gone by the time they get here.”

“Oh no you won’t,” Hawke growled, planting her feet. “I _do_ have moral standards, you know. And I really, really, _really_ don’t like slavery.” The two men drew their swords, and Hawke met Aveline’s gaze before turning back to the men with a grin. “Alright then, death it is, I suppose.”

~~~~

One slaver was dead on the ground and Aveline had the other by the shirt collar when a guardsman came running around the corner, blade drawn.

“What is going _on_ here?!” he shouted, glancing between Aveline, Hawke, and the dead body.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Hawke argued, dropping the slaver’s sizeable coin purse. “They were trying to kidnap this poor woman. We stopped him.”

Still gagged, the elven woman nodded emphatically.

“They’re lying! We was just trying to collect on a debt! Just wanted to scare her, that’s all!”

Aveline looked down at him, disgusted, then got to her feet to untie the woman’s gag.

“These young women freed me. They were going to give me to the Tevinters! Please, Ser, I’ve got children at home!”

“Yes, yes, it’s alright,” the guard murmured, kneeling in front of the woman. “We’ll take it from here. Run along.”

The elven woman nodded, scrambling to her feet and disappearing down the winding streets. Before the slaver could escape, the guard grabbed him by the collar, not even looking at him. He turned back to Aveline and Hawke, appraising both women.

“We’ve been trying to track these two down for weeks. Their extortion was getting out of hand. Glad to see there are _some_ people who care about justice in this city.” His eyes fell on Aveline. “Even if they _are_ Ferelden. You should consider joining the guard. We could use a good sword arm.”

Aveline blinked, getting to her feet. “You would accept Fereldens?”

He shrugged, tying the slaver’s hands nonchalantly. “Me, personally? I don’t really care _who_ we hire, as long as there are enough people keeping the streets safe.” He nodded to both of them, then began escorting the convict away.

When he was gone, Hawke elbowed Aveline in the side. “You should do it.”

“Me? _You’re_ the one who stepped in so fast.”

“I like my freedom. I hated having to take orders as a _soldier_. Can you imagine how much I’d hate being a _slave_?”

“Point. But… really?”

“Yeah, I think you’d be good at it,” Hawke replied, scooping up the coin purse again and dumping it into her own, smiling as she heard the coins jingle. “And you’d be one step closer to ‘in charge.’ Just like we promised.”

“I… suppose you’re right.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jobs for and with Athenril kept both Hawke siblings quite busy, a rather familiar pattern emerging. The name “Hawke” was starting to gather steam, mostly because of the number of diversions Naiyah had created while Athenril’s men did their jobs. And the few shakedowns she’d done to ensure vendors made good on their payments to Athenril. Comparatively, Bethany faded into the background, her magic useful for keeping the smugglers hidden, healthy, and functional. It all suited Naiyah just fine.

She was getting used to Athenril, how she worked, how she thought. The more successful Naiyah was, the more often she was running missions with Athenril herself, though fortunately never again having to lure any men in with her “good looks.” Actually, she was becoming increasingly popular at the Blooming Rose. Not for her patronage, but because a great deal of the girls there were much more comfortable paying Athenril for their protection than they were with Meeran’s mercenaries. Naiyah had shaken off quite a few jilted “lovers,” and the girls kept offering her their “services” in payment. She’d been tempted a couple of times, but… nah. Gold was better.

Her missions with Athenril almost always ended in violence, and she found that she was becoming more of a glorified bodyguard than an actual smuggler. Not that she minded. There were always plenty of Coterie fools testing the blade of her axe and the strength of her arm. Meanwhile, Bethany kept the goods safe, all the while well under the radar of the Templars.

It had been quite some time since they’d come to Kirkwall, by this point, and Naiyah was starting to get used to the city, although she kept an ear out for news from Ferelden. She was intrigued by the stories of this Grey Warden, wondering who she was. Especially hearing that she was going to be _queen_ … what an interesting development. 

Naiyah presented a bundle of rare herbs to the herbalist in the Gallows, smiling as he handed her a bag of coins. “Athenril appreciates your business.”

“I’ll bet she does. I don’t want to know who you had to kill to get these--”

“I didn’t _kill_ anyone!” Hawke interrupted, her hand over her heart. “I only scared them a little.”

He laughed. “That big axe you have isn’t a part of that, I take it? Isn’t that for executioners?”

“You _noticed!_ ”

“Your delight is disturbing. Well, if you need any potions, let me know. I’m always understocked, but I’ll help any way I can.”

Turning to go, Naiyah was about to go look for Athenril when she saw Bethany, using her magic to send a bundle of cloth over a balcony.

She waved, hurrying over to her sister’s side. “I see she’s got you doing the fun stuff.”

“Oh yes, it’s _riveting_ ,” Bethany answered dryly, holding her hand up to catch the bag of coins that came floating toward her, seemingly out of nowhere. “But it pays well. You think we worked our debt off yet? It’s been a whole year, and Athenril’s gang has gotten big enough it’s even challenging the Coterie!”

“Yes, I--”

“Apostate!”

Naiyah’s blood ran cold at the word, knowing instantly that something had gone very, very wrong, even before she saw the pair of Templars charging at them.

“Bethany--”

“Don’t you dare!” the shorter of the two grabbed Bethany by the shoulders, and Naiyah swung her axe toward her, only barely missing.

“What are you _doing?!”_ the Templar shouted, turning toward her. “How _dare_ you strike against a knight of the order!”

They instantly turned on her, one of them sending a kick into her gut, painful enough to cause her to double over. But she swung at the other one’s feet, not able to cut through, thanks to the silverite-reinforced greaves, but able to knock her off of her feet.

She stood firm in front of both of them, glancing around. Her sister was long gone, but in the shadows, she saw an elven figure disappear around the corner.

“What was I supposed to do, when you come running at me out of nowhere?!” she shouted, setting her axe down. “What in the Maker’s name has gotten into you?!”

“We were notified that it was an apostate that had been smuggling rare magical materials to the mages here,” the other one answered, keeping his eye on Naiyah’s axe. “An elven smuggler turned her in to us.”

Feeling her eyes widen, Naiyah stood straighter. “Well, you’re looking in the wrong place.”

“You think we’re stupid?! We can _sense_ magic on you,” the female Templar spat.

Naiyah rolled her eyes, pulling a bag of runestones out of her pocket. “You mean these? I paid a hefty sum for these. You can ask Worthy, over in Hightown.”

Both Templars looked down at the dozens of runes Naiyah dumped onto the tiled street in front of them, forcing her expression to stay neutral, even bored, although her heartbeat was much faster than normal.

“There _are_ a lot of runestones,” the male Templar noted.

“Yes, I’m not _stupid_ ,” the other shot back. “What do you need with all of these, anyway?!” she asked Naiyah.

“I wanted to set my axe on fire.”

“Uh-huh.” She began scooping up the runestones, then glared at Naiyah. “You sure you didn’t see any apostates? None with ‘black hair and skinny waists’?”

“None at all,” Naiyah confirmed, pressing the bag of coins the herbalist had given her into the Templar’s hands. “And if you’ll forget about the whole ‘assaulting an officer’ thing, I’ll also not make any complaints about you assaulting civilians.”

The Templar woman hefted the coins in her palm, then nodded. “Fine. I apologize for the… misidentification. But we’re keeping an eye on you.”

“Isn’t everyone?”

The Templar kicked her again, knocking the breath out of her, then turned away. “Let’s go. We let that smuggler get away, too. We can’t let the Knight-Commander hear about this, or she’ll have our heads for sure.”

Naiyah gasped for breath, then gathered both her axe and her dignity, heading straight toward the source of the problem.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You _sold us out!”_ Naiyah shouted, shoving Athenril’s guards out of the way and glaring down at the elven woman.

“Calm down, Hawke--”

Naiyah grabbed her by the throat, pinning her up against her hideout’s wall. She heard the sounds of blades being drawn from sheaths, could see the shine of the blades being pointed at her, but she didn’t care. “I _trusted_ you. Don’t know why I did that. Pretty stupid of me, huh? Our year is up and the whole deal about keeping my sister’s secret is off? Is that what happened?!”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Athenril choked out, her feet kicking weakly. “The Templars caught me stealing. If I didn’t give them a good enough distraction, they were going to catch me!”

Naiyah let her go, watching her crumple to the ground. “So you were just going to let my sister rot in the Gallows to save your own skin.”

Athenril gasped for breath, looking up at her. “I’ve done a lot worse to save my own skin, Hawke. And you know it.”

Naiyah thought back to their talks next to the _vhenadahl_ , to their shifts together, to the wicked look in Athenril’s eyes as she’d robbed wealthy merchants blind while Hawke distracted them. Those were the eyes of a woman who had struggled. Who had fought, lied, even perhaps killed, to get where she was. And all of the people, humans and elves both, now pointing blades at Hawke, had counted on that strength.

“I’m done,” Naiyah affirmed, unbuckling first her breastplate, then her gauntlets, then her greaves, discarding each piece of smuggler’s armor, one by one, at Athenril’s feet, until she was standing in front of the entire hideout in only her linen shirt and trousers. “Bethany and I paid off our debts long ago, and you know it.”

She turned, facing the dozens of blades now pointed at her. “I don’t want to fight all of you.”

“Let her go,” Athenril coughed.

Naiyah glanced back at her, a bit surprised, seeing a flash of regret in her huge, lovely elven eyes. But then she shook her head and turned back, pushing open the door and leaving this part of her life behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? They gave me a whole year of no canon content to play around with. And I always wondered why Hawke ended her employment with Athenril on bad terms. So... here we are.


	5. Esfera Cousland- Weight

Esfera shaded her eyes from the sun, surveying the foothills leading up to their mountainous destination far, far in the distance, little more than a large splotch of purple and white on the horizon.

She frowned down at her map. “Levi had better be right about this Grey Warden keep,” she muttered, rolling it back up. “If I wasted a week of time I could be using to recruit mages to our cause just to find a crumbled ruin, I’m going to kill him.”

“No you won’t,” Leliana argued, a laugh in her voice.

“...you’re right, I wouldn’t. But I would say very, very mean things about him and his entire family!”

“No you wouldn’t.”

Esfera pouted, then turned and whacked Leliana over the head with the scroll, causing the other woman only to giggle. Rolling her eyes, she tucked the map into her pack, pushing forward down the path.

It was somewhat fun, those days where they packed up camp and moved together through Ferelden. Cookie ran ahead, chasing after squirrels, deer, or other wildlife that crossed their path, sometimes bringing it down and bringing it back to the others in exchange for ear scritches. Or presenting it to Morrigan, who always turned it down, disgusted. 

Sten stayed at the rear, always on the lookout for raiders or darkspawn. More than once they’d nearly been attacked, but any charging blightwolf that came at them from the rear was immediately felled by the huge greatsword Esfera had acquired for him in the depths of the Brecilian ruins.

Morrigan also seemed happy to lag behind, though less out of an obligation to protect and more out of a desire to explore. She took samples of roadkill, pulled up samples of new plants she hadn’t encountered before, and generally kept her distance from Alistair.

It was usually only Alistair and Leliana that stayed close to her as they traveled. Leliana sometimes hummed songs while they walked, or would tell stories, speak of history, if Esfera asked. And she frequently asked. She enjoyed the sound of Leliana’s voice, even with her slight Orlesian accent. It seemed to help the miles disappear under their feet.

But today she was not singing. She stepped closer to Esfera’s side, pointing to a spot just off the path. “Do you remember that falling star I saw last night? I think it may have fallen through here.”

“How do you know?”

Leliana pointed toward the trees, which had a noticeable… broken look to them. As if something had gone crashing through their branches in a noticeable horizontal decline.

“Ah. Shall we go look? I hear it’s good luck.”

“Yes, let’s go!” Leliana took off at a run, and Esfera shouted after her, realizing that she’d been goaded into a race. And was likely going to lose. Her armor wasn’t exactly conducive to full sprints.

She arrived at the crash site well behind Leliana, gasping for breath. “Don’t run off like that, you little--!”

A man and woman carrying a wriggling baby strolled happily past them, both cooing to the child. She blinked at them, but turned her attention back to Leliana, standing in the crater.

There was a round object in the center of it, still glowing. It wasn’t particularly large, smaller than her head, but based on the way Leliana had her fingers under it, yet was straining to lift it, it was… quite heavy.

Esfera nudged her out of the way, then picked up the hunk of metal herself, lifting it to the light. Not only did it sparkle, but it had no heat to it, despite its odd blue-green glow. It looked almost like lyrium, but not quite. There was something a bit different about it.

“Have you ever seen something like this?” she asked, lowering it to Leliana’s view.

Shaking her head, Leliana turned toward Morrigan, who was only just now climbing into the crater, looking annoyed. “Have you, Morrigan?”

“No, it’s certainly some magical gift from the heavens. Shall we continue on our way, or will you continue acting like children?”

“No need to be so snide, Morrigan,” Esfera chastised. “It’s likely incredibly valua--”

“HELP!”

Everyone looked up as a young woman came rushing down the crater toward them, eyes frantic. “Oh, thank the Maker, please help! They attacked the wagon, please help! Follow me”

She ran off before Esfera could ask for details, clearly too distraught to be thinking clearly.

“Wait, miss!” She ran after her, calling for her companions to hurry behind. They ran some distance behind, nearly stumbling over a pair of ox corpses.

She hurried around the corner, her sword in hand, coming to a stop when she saw the young woman facing an elven man with tattoos on his face, who turned toward them and smiled.

“Ah, it’s an ambush, then,” she muttered, cursing herself for being fooled so easily.

With a single gesture from the elf, enemies rose from all around them. The ledge to her left, the winding paths ahead of them and behind, even from just behind the “attacked” cart.

Cookie came careening toward them, smashing through a line of rogues, giving Esfera enough time to react as the elf pulled a sword and dagger from behind his back, his smile turning vicious. “The Grey Warden dies here!”

She was still holding the ball of metal in her left hand, so she quickly whipped out her sword with her other hand, parrying a blow from the elf, until she was blasted backwards by a jolt of lightning from the woman they had chased there, falling onto her back. She rolled out of the way just in time to avoid several arrows launched her way, using the same momentum to spring to her feet.

“Leliana! Morrigan! The archers!”

She didn’t have to say it twice. A response arc of lightning blasted through the archers, but apparently these were no average highwaymen. Even Morrigan seemed surprised when they continued firing, apparently singularly focused on taking Esfera down.

Another spell hit her, this time a blast of cold that made her legs go numb, a perfect tactic to make her an easy target for the archers. She grit her teeth, twisting in place toward Alistair.

“Alistair, get the _mage!_ ” she shouted, and it certainly looked like he was trying, but the sword-wielding assassins seemed to have formed ranks around the woman, and Alistair was skilled, but even he couldn’t easily fight four opponents at the same time. Especially not when the fourth one was sneaking up behind him, his dagger raised.

In her moment of looking for Alistair, she almost didn’t see the human swordsman approach her, bringing his blade up in a wide arc. Though her legs were frozen in place, she managed to lean back out of the blow just in time for it to swipe uselessly across her Juggernaut armor, but the blade did catch the edge of her helmet and lift, slicing an arc through the skin of her jaw and sending her helm flying. But the elf was still sneaking up on Alistair.

When her attempts to move her still-frozen legs failed, she remembered the ball of metal still in her left hand.

“Hey! Elf boy!”

He didn’t turn toward her, but there was a noticeable hesitation when he realized he’d been seen. It wasn’t much but it was enough for her to launch the ball of metal at him with all of her strength. It crashed quite satisfyingly against his skull and he crumpled instantly, blood dripping from the point of impact.

There was no time to be relieved, though. Cookie had charged past the lines of swordsman, taking a few slashes to his flank in the process, but his persistent claws and teeth were keeping the archers too busy to fire at Esfera, giving her enough time to pull her legs out of the column of ice she was stuck in and parry another blow. She kicked her assailant in the stomach, using the half-second of opportunity to remove her shield from her back. She didn’t get a proper grip on it, but she was at least able to hold it in front of her to block the mage’s next blast of flame.

Thankfully, Sten came from behind her, his giant sword slicing completely through one of the swordsman that had been holding Alistair back. With that window of opportunity, the other Warden smashed the other one down with his shield, managing to get through to the mage. She attempted to back away, but an arrow from Leliana pinned her dress to the rock wall, keeping her in place long enough for Alistair’s sword to come down.

The battle didn’t take too long after that. They cleaned up the rest of the swordsman, taking quite a few hits in the process, but compared to the mage’s destructive abilities, they were otherwise overpowered. There were some perks to the darkspawn blood running through her veins, after all. As well as Leliana’s speed, Sten’s strength, and Morrigan’s, well.. Morrigan.

Esfera huffed, sliding her shield back onto the hooks on the back of her armor, then sheathing her sword. “Assassins. I _hate_ assassins. They fight like cowards. All this deceit and backstabbing…”

“Been attacked by many assassins?” Morrigan asked, nonchalantly rifling through the mage woman’s clothing.

“Of course. I was born nobility, remember? You think Howe was the first one who thought of assassinating the Couslands of Highever?”

Next to her, Alistair looked shocked. “So… this isn’t your first time repelling assassins?”

“No, and if Loghain has his way, it won’t be the last.” She moved over to Cookie, who was nursing one of his paws. She reached up to feel the still-bleeding slash across her jaw and grimaced. “I suppose we’ll have to make camp for the night to tend to our injuries. Damn! I was hoping to reach the foothills of Soldier’s Peak by nightfall.”

She looked around the battlefield for her helmet, spotting it not far away from the body of the opponent who had given her the slash. But she also saw a glint of light on the ground and remembered the metal from before. Walking over to pick it up, she heard a slight groan and immediately grabbed the hilt of her sword.

It was the elven man, who seemed to be the leader of this group of assassins. So apparently the extremely-heavy meteorite crashing into his skull hadn’t killed him. She nudged him with her foot, rolling him over so that she could see his face. Blood was still running down his scalp, sticking his golden-blond hair to his neck, but there was no mistaking his good looks. He would be handsome, if he weren’t half dead. And if he hadn’t just tried to kill Alistair. 

“Sten, hand me the rope. This one’s still alive.”

The Qunari warrior walked over, lifting the long coil of rope he had hooked to his pack and handing it to her. Once the elf was tied up so tightly that he looked like a caterpillar emerging from its chrysalis, she dumped the contents of her waterskin over his head.

He sputtered to consciousness, coughing out the water that had spilled into his mouth and blearily blinking up at her.

“Hmmm, what? I… oh. I rather thought I’d wake up dead. Or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But I see you haven’t killed me yet.”

Esfera crossed her arms, frowning down at him. “That can still be arranged, you know.”

“Oooh, aggressive, no? I suppose there are worse ways to die than at the hands of such a _beautiful_ woman.” Esfera pressed her hand into his head injury and he winced, but didn’t stop smiling. “But if it’s questions you’re planning on asking me, let me save you a little time and get right to the point. My name is Zevran. Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens. Which I have failed at, sadly.”

Raising an eyebrow, Esfera began tossing the metal ball from hand to hand, noting his eyes following it nervously. “I’m almost insulted. Twenty years as the daughter of the Teyrn of Highever and only now that I’m a Grey Warden do I get the illustrious _Antivan Crows_ after my head? Clearly I have been doing something wrong.”

“Or _not_ doing something wrong, as the case may be. But even if I had been sent to kill you as the daughter of a noble rather than a Grey Warden… getting captured by one’s target seems a tad detrimental to one’s budding assassin career.”

“And getting _dead_ is fairly detrimental to one’s career as a Grey Warden,” Esfera reminded him, beginning to toss the metal even higher, still enjoying how much his eyes followed it.

“Fair point.”

She continued questioning him, allowing Leliana, Morrigan and Sten to go on ahead in order to find a suitable campground to recover from the wounds they had sustained from the battle, including the slash through the skin of Esfera’s own jaw, which was only just beginning to stop dripping blood. She was entirely unsurprised when he told her that he was hired by Loghain but had no loyalty to him, but she was a bit surprised when, rather than letting the Crows kill him for failing in his job, he asked to join her, since she had already proven quite skilled at repelling assassins.

Really, she’d been planning on letting him live the whole time, but his offer intrigued her. She only _briefly_ considered leaving him to die when he called her a “deadly sex goddess.” She’d blushed a bit when he mentioned “warming her bed,” but he admittedly did stop his flirtation as soon as she made it clear that it wasn’t otherwise affecting her.

“Let’s make one thing clear, Zevran. I don’t condone assassination. But… that you were bought into this life is not lost on me. My mission is difficult, and I need all the help I can get. There are certain things I cannot do that perhaps you can. When you are with me, you will know the difference between _right_ and _wrong_ and know which side of the line to stay on. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly clear. Now if you would untie me…”

Esfera rolled her eyes, grabbing the rope-and-elf bundle and slinging it over her shoulder, stalking off in the direction Morrigan and Sten had gone.

Alistair walked next to her, obviously unhappy. “You sure this is a good idea?”

“And why not? He failed at killing me once, he’s not going to succeed again now that I’m expecting it. And besides, we’ve already got one dangerous murderer in our group. What’s one more?”

From the lump on her shoulder: “And I must say, my dear, merciful Warden, you are just as fine to look at from behind as you are from the front?”

Esfera instantly let go, letting him fall to the ground with a _thunk_ that satisfyingly knocked the air out of him. She whistled, and then when Cookie came running over to her, grabbed a length of the rope and held it out to the dog.

“Cookie, would you take this cargo back to camp? As _fast_ as you possibly can, please.”

Cookie barked, happily snatching the rope from her hands.

“Wait, no! I apologize, I didn’t--!”

Cookie shot off down the road, the bundle dragging behind him over plenty of bumps and rocks. After several satisfying exclamations of pain later, Esfera brushed off her hands and turned to Alistair. “Leliana was right… I couldn’t kill him. He deserves a chance for redemption, just like everyone does.” She felt a grin spread across her face. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to make him _earn_ it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time they arrived back at camp, Morrigan had already set up her tent far away from where Leliana had begun digging the firepit, Sten was back to his usual edge-of-camp vigil… and the Zevran-rope-bundle (the rope significantly frayed now) was propped up against a boulder, looking rather indignant.

Upon seeing him, Esfera hid laughter behind her hand, then walked over. “I apologize, that was a bit _too_ cruel. After all, I _did_ hit you in the head with a meteorite.”

“Ah, so that’s what that was. An impressive throw.”

“I do my best,” she answered, leaning down to untie the ropes. “Some tips on assassination? Not every target is going to be seduced.”

“I see that,” he replied, wiggling his fingers as soon as the ropes fell away from them. “Though I hope you realize it only increases the appeal. I do _so_ like a challenge.”

“Well stop it. I mean it, Zevran. If you want to help us, it won’t be in my bedroll. Unlike the Antivan Crows, I am not interested in keeping slaves. Of _any_ kind. Now sit still; that bump on your head is quite serious.”

“Beautiful _and_ kind. Whoever _does_ manage to win your favor is lucky indeed.”

She paused in the act of pulling bandages out of her pack, sighing at him. “What did I _just_ say? Enough with the flattery!”

“Why do you act as if I have some ulterior motive in remarking on your stunning looks? I say you are beautiful because it is _true!_ I will never understand you Fereldens and your obsession with modesty.”

She scowled, emptying the rest of her waterskin onto her handkerchief and dabbing at his forehead. “There’s a great deal you’re not telling me, Zevran.”

“Of course. There’s a great deal the Chantry sister is not telling you as well, no? And the mountains of tales that sorceress could tell if she desired to! I am no different.”

“I… suppose you’re right.” She began wrapping the bandages around his head, careful to cushion the spot the meteorite had hit. “But your ambush simply does not make _sense_ to me. Even with the numbers you had… why attack me out in the open? It’s not particularly assassin-like of you. Why not while I slept, or while in a busy city street, unsuspecting?”

He didn’t answer, just followed her hands with his eyes as she wrapped his wounds.

She sighed. “Alright, fine.” She finished tying the bandages, then patted the bump gently to make sure it was secure. “There. Take care of yourself; get some rest. We’re on the road again tomorrow.” Standing up, she looked down at him again. “For what it’s worth…I don’t begrudge you the choices you’ve made. Just _stop_ flirting with me and we’ll see about being friends.”

“You are quite liberal with your friendship, Warden.”

“Don’t push it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As they waited for Levi Dryden to pause and look around at the maze of mining tunnels yet again, Esfera leaned heavily against an abandoned cart, pulling her helmet off to get a full lungful of air, her braid spilling out of it.

Alistair leaned next to her, stretching his neck. “Long walk, huh? After fending assassins, I’m surprised you’re so determined to be up and about.”

“I feel fine, honestly. Just needed a night’s rest.”

“Are you alright? Is your cut okay?” he reached out toward her face, almost brushing his fingers over the still-tender flesh of the slash across her jaw, but he stopped just before, pulling his hand back.

Following his hand with her eyes as he set it firmly back down against the side of the cart, Esfera frowned. “You don’t have to worry about me, Alistair.”

“I know I don’t _have_ to worry about you, but I _do_ . I can’t _not_ worry about you.”

Esfera slid her hand over his, weaving her fingers into the gaps. They weren’t actually _touching_ ; they were both wearing armored gloves, but just the feeling of taking his hand was… good and comforting. Even though he stiffened as soon as she did.

“You’re still angry that I allowed Zevran to come along, aren’t you?”

“Well, not _angry_ , but… do you really trust him? The guy that tried to kill you only _yesterday_?”

Esfera glanced up, to where Zevran was digging at the mine wall with a small knife, grinning to himself as he produced an uncut gemstone. “I wouldn’t call it trust, I just…” she closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the mine wall. “I want to believe that people are _good_ , Alistair. Even the annoying ones. So… I regret what I did to Zevran. If I’m going to show mercy, I should _always_ show it. I’m ashamed that you saw me act in such a childish manner.”

“Actually, I thought it was very attractive of you. Though I hope you’re not going to let your dog drag _me_ down the road for saying so.”

Esfera snorted, but then fell serious again. “I was still kind of angry at him for attacking us. But it wasn’t because he attacked me… it was because he attacked _you._ And you’re perfectly capable, and I trust you more than anyone-- except, perhaps, Cookie-- but… without you I’d feel alone in all of this, and I don’t think I could’ve made it all this way.”

“And here I always felt like you were _carrying_ me all this time!”

“No! We’re in this together. And we’ll end it together. I’ll make sure of that, even if it means I have to keep hitting assassins with meteorites.”

He smiled, and she squeezed his hand and got to her feet, noticing that Levi seemed to have decided on a direction to go. She waved him forward, and Alistair fell into step behind her as they followed him.

“So why the rush? I know the Blight is a big, big thing, but we could’ve rested for _one_ more day before heading into a definitely-cursed fortress.”

“I was… almost desperate to come here, as soon as Levi told me of this place,” she admitted. “I know there are probably no actual Grey Wardens here, but just _knowing_ a little bit more would put my heart at ease. At least a little bit. Knowing why there were so few Grey Wardens in Ferelden in the first place, what happened in Soldier’s Peak to cause their exile.” She pushed aside a large spider web, allowing Levi to step through. She was talking to Alistair, but she knew the others were listening. But she couldn’t stop. The words were tumbling out, getting faster and faster as she talked as if placing her hand over Alistair’s had been the key to a door she hadn’t even known she’d kept locked. “We’ll know why there were so few Grey Wardens at Ostagar, because maybe if there had been _more_ , they would have survived! They would’ve been able to stop… stop the darkspawn before they marched forth, and it wouldn’t _be_ just you and me, and I can’t change the past, but… I regret it. I just hate that there are so many lives I couldn’t _save_!”

Her voice had risen to a shout by that last word, echoing down the mines. She winced, listening for the telltale sounds of creatures waking from the deep, but thankfully heard none. However, they were all looking at her now, even Zevran, his high, arched eyebrows only arching higher.

She quickly hurried past Levi, her ears burning as she lowered her voice again. “With Lothering, and the Dalish and werewolves in the Brecilian Forest… the numbers keep adding up, and I hate it. If there’s a life I can save, I want to do so. Even if he _did_ just try to kill me. And if there’s _anything_ in that fortress that will give me the knowledge or power to save more lives, I want to find it.”

“Errr…” Levi glanced between her and Alistair, making sure they were finished before he said anything. “If that’s what you’re here for… I found it again. We’re finally here.”

Esfera looked down the tunnel he was pointing and knew it to be true, light pouring through the tunnel toward them.

She took a deep breath, calming herself from her outburst earlier. “Let’s go.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Soldier’s Peak was a living memory. The keep was impressive, but nothing could prepare her for the visions that appeared each time she learned something new, as if they had sprung from her own mind. And every time they did, the dead would walk. Dozens of them, crowding around them, scratching at them with their clawed, boned fingers even if they managed to knock their weapons away. Some of them the bodies of Ferelden soldiers. Some of them the corpses of Grey Wardens.

They started in the courtyard, with the memory of the Ferelden Commander ordering his men to trap the Wardens inside until they starved to death. Once they had defeated the waves of powerful skeletons there, Esfera insisted that Leliana guard the door, since her bow was going to be the most useful for attacking from all sides. They couldn’t allow themselves to get back attacked.

Then the foyer, where Esfera laid her eyes on a specter of Warden-Commander Sophia Dryden, every bit the strong, confident, powerful woman that Levi had made her out to be. 

_But we are Wardens! Darkspawn flee when they hear our horns. Archdemons die when they taste our blades._

Her words resounded through Esfera’s heart, reminding her of every reason she had _wanted_ to be a Grey Warden, why she still struggled against the Blight. But it _wasn’t_ the Blight that Sophia had been struggling against. It was a Ferelden King. It was wrong. This… this was all wrong.

There was no regret in killing things that were already dead-- their souls had long since departed, and what she was killing was not really _them_ , she knew-- only a spirit that had taken up residence in the body, using it to do wretched things. If they knew what their bodies were being used for, they would likely be horrified. So it was better that they fall. But that did not stop her from feeling sorrow as she saw skeletons shamble toward her with the proud silver gryphon emblazoning their tattered armor.

Around every corner were more skeletons, arcane horrors, more cursed undead of the Grey Wardens who had perished there, but also books, scrolls, journals, swords, shields… pieces of history as much as they were tools. Esfera read ravenously, desperately trying to understand what had happened, why there had been so much death here. Of course, the Grey Wardens had been exiled from Ferelden because they had fought against a tyrant king and failed. But there was _more_ , there _had_ to be.

The summoning chamber was where she finally understood, although the understanding left a bitter taste in her mouth. No desperation should have led Grey Wardens to _this,_ to _demons_ , so many demons, rising out of the floor and overwhelming her with heat and rage, so intense she could barely stand it. They couldn’t even control them, so foolish they had been! No wonder the veil was so thin she couldn’t tell whether they were in the waking world or a dream.

Here, in this… summoning chamber, here was where the veil was thinnest, Morrigan told her. Here was where the demons were pouring through, and would continue to do so until it was sealed.

She couldn’t very well leave the summoning chamber unattended, even if she didn’t have the tools to seal it, so she insisted that most of her companions stay to watch it, to keep anything else from coming through.

She pressed on, into what seemed to be the Commander’s office, not sure what to expect, but certainly not expecting Sophia Dryden to be standing there, just as tall and proud as she had been in the memory-visions.

But when she turned to face Esfera, she was… wrong. Just as wrong as everything else in this place had been. Her face decaying, her shiny back hair dulled with time, with decay, with death. And her voice, resonant around the stone of the room, was wrong, too. Inhuman, monstrous. Demonic.

She knew immediately that it was a demon. That Sophia Dryden was long dead. And yet, when it said “this one is the Dryden. Commander. Sophia. All these things,” she… stopped. She let go of the hilt of her sword, stepping toward the monstrosity with her palms out. 

“I have killed many demons to reach you. But if you have answers, I do not want to kill another.”

“This one knows the answers you seek, has spent many years in the Dryden’s body. This one has tasted her memories, seen her thoughts and hidden places. What she knows, I know. But I do not give my answers freely. I will offer a deal.”

“A deal? Why should I trust a deal with a demon?”

“What is one woman-child compared to _your_ might? Strike me down if my terms offend.”

Levi nudged her, breaking her concentration on the demon. “Look, I appreciate your concern, but… that thing ain’t my great-great-grandmother.”

“I _know_ , Levi,” she snapped. “Tell me more of Sophia.”

“She is food for this one. No more, no less.”

Gritting her teeth, Esfera brought her hand to her sword. “Give me answers, demon. Tell me… tell me of the Grey Wardens. Tell me of Sophia Dryden, of the role of Warden-Commander, of the Blight and the Archdemon… tell me!”

“Or what? You’ll strike me down?”

“Yes.”

It laughed, inhumanly deep and shaking the keep around her. “Fool! I will tell you nothing. If you take my deal, however… all that I know is yours.”

“And what is this ‘deal’ you suggest?”

Alistair ran into the room, sounding out of breath. “Esfera! There’s… what are you doing?”

The demon continued as if he wasn’t there. “Soldier’s Peak traps me. This one sees so many tantalizing places in the Dryden’s memories-- this one would see the world herself. For me to be _free_ , into the old mage tower you go and destroy. In return, this one seals the veil. This one will roam, this one will see… this one will _feed._ ”

“I… the tear in the veil _is_ dangerous…”

The creature wearing the face of Sophia Dryden smiled. “Set this one free, then, and it shall be done.”

Again, Levi nudged her. “You can’t actually be considering this?!”

And Alistair, too, was just behind her, trying to evaluate the situation. “I’m not,” she answered, reaching up and pulling her sword out of its sheath. “I only hoped that she would be able to tell me more of the Grey Wardens. But… I see that is not going to happen.”

“FOOL!”

The demon-with-Sophia’s-face charged, its sword faster than Esfera’s own, but not faster than her shield. Not faster than Levi, leaping out of the way.

More corpses rose; it was hard to fight in this small space. And the-demon-with-Sophia’s-face _knew_ this space, knew every object in it. Knew the pages of journal would obstruct Esfera’s view, knew that Alistair would run to protect Levi, knew that her armor was strong against Esfera’s grey-iron blade. Strong enough, even, to render it useless.

Esfera tried to jab in at an angle, through the joints of the Warden-Commander armor, but she wasn’t fast enough. the-demon-with-Sophia’s-face only laughed, pulling away from her, twisting and bending, kicking her away and meeting the blast of magic from Morrigan’s staff head-on, seemingly unfazed.

Esfera hadn’t even heard the blade break. But when she looked down, all that was left of her family’s sword was its hilt, and a shining shard of grey iron. The rest was embedded in Sophia Dryden’s corpse.

Weaponless, Esfera knew she was vulnerable. She brought her shield up, blocking several of the creature’s blows, but she could do little more. It was pushing her into a corner, its own strong, strong shield denting into her own. She knew she was the thing’s main target.

She stood taller, shouting, lashing out with her shield. “Return to the Fade, demon!” she screamed, pushing against the wall and colliding with the creature, managing to catch it off-guard enough to knock it backwards.

The creature fell backwards, only a moment, but enough for Alistair to knock its sword out of its grip, Enough for Esfera to lift the point of her shield above her head and bring it down, heavy, into the soft, rotting flesh of Sophia Dryden’s neck. She struggled for a moment, congealed blood bubbling forth from her throat, and then she went still. The demon was gone.

“Are you alright?” Alistair asked, his voice soft as he leaned down and pulled the wedge of broken blade from Sophia’s armor and held it out to her.

She took it from him, her eyes stinging as she looked down at the broken pieces, then at the scattered diary pages, and then at the now-still corpse of Sophia Dryden.

“I’m… sorry, Levi.”

“Don’t be. That thing wasn’t my great-great-grandmother.”

“...you’re right.” She got to her feet, sliding first broken shard, then hilt, into her sheath, taking Sophia’s sword off of her body. “Your great-great-grandmother died long ago.”

Alistair looked like he wanted to say something, but she only swallowed and gestured them back the way they came. “The demon mentioned the mage tower. We should go.”

“I think I’ll go back and keep your friend company. The one you got guarding the door.”

“Good idea.”

Esfera watched him run off, past Morrigan, leaning in the doorway, then sensed both of them looking at her.

“Later. Let’s just finish this. The veil won’t seal itself.”

She pushed past Morrigan, to the door that led to the mage tower the-demon-with-Sophia’s-face had mentioned, which had been magically sealed before she’d been slain. But now it was clear; she could push through.

More skeletons, more former Grey Wardens, more vision-memories she could not control. But Sophia’s sword was much stronger than her family’s blade had been. She hadn’t realized how hard she’d been fighting to compensate for its weak magic. But she hadn’t wanted to let it go.

They reached Avernus’ tower, and, faced with his diary, and the memory-vision it sparked, Esfera regretted ensuring that everyone had eaten a decent meal before they’d set out for the fortress that morning. Because she almost threw it up.

“Blood magic. He was using blood magic on his fellow Grey Wardens,” she spat, slamming his journal closed with disgust. She straightened, walking over to the bottle left on the table, its liquid as dark and murky as the potion for the Joining. It promised to unlock the power of her blood. The true power of a Grey Warden.

“Wait… Esfera, what are you doing?!”

She snatched the bottle, pulled the cork off, and poured it down her throat.

Alistair stared at her, completely shocked. “What… you _just_ read what he did to make that, didn’t you?! What is _wrong_ with you?!”

“I know they wouldn’t want their sacrifice to be _wasted_ ,” she answered, wiping her mouth with her thumb. She felt shivers run through her body and froze, holding herself together for a few moments. “I… came here to find knowledge and strength, Alistair. I’m not letting it slip by me.”

She shivered again, but pressed forward.

Avernus-- the mage who had summoned the demons, weakened the veil in the first place… he was still alive?! His office stank of rotting flesh, blood, more so than all the rest of the tower. Bodies still decorated the devices on the walls, some of them with mouths still open in the expression of betrayal.

She charged toward him without thinking about it, knocking him to the ground, Sophia’s sword to his throat. “ _You._ You did this! You _destroyed_ the Wardens here!”

He gagged against her gauntlet pressing into his throat, his eye on the point of her blade. “If justice or vengeance drive you, stay your hand until the demons are dealt with.”

Her blood was boiling, cold, hot, fast, slow, her mind spinning. “You can fix the veil?”

“If we go to the great hall--” Avernus gasped under her grasp, his ancient throat unprepared for her weight on it. “I will repair the damage I did so long ago.”

She pressed harder, and he choked out, “I swear!”

She remembered the memory-visions, the Grey Wardens desperate for food and drink, praying to the Maker for mercy. She remembered demons slaughtering King Arling’s men and Wardens alike. She remembered the face of Sophia Dryden, honorable, decrying the rule of a despot, and then the twisted, rotting version of it, a walking puppet for a wretched, feasting monster.

He deserved no better than a sword through his throat. The arrogant way he glared up at her, despite her hold on his neck, made her certain of it. He felt no regret. He would repair the damage only because she demanded he do so.

A hand on her shoulder. “Esfera… Esfera, this isn’t you. We need him.”

 _This isn’t you_. 

Who was she?

 _I want to believe that people are_ good.

She relaxed her sword-arm, stepping off of Avernus’ chest and holding her head.

“Let’s go, then. There’s no time. I won’t leave my friends to guard the tear alone much longer.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The battle to close the tear in the veil was excruciating. Shades, rage demons, desire demons, pressing upon them, fire and ice and blood magic, ripping at their bodies and minds. Sophia Dryden’s sword grew hot in Esfera’s hands under a rage demon’s grip, and she screamed and let it go, forced to block with her shield.

“Zevran! The desire demon!”

The tip of a sword appeared immediately through the thing’s breasts, shining orange in the light from the rage demon’s fires. “If you insist!”

So his stealth _did_ work against demons.

The rage demon in front of her froze, literally. She glanced over long enough to see Morrigan channeling an ice spell into it, just before getting knocked backwards by a shade.

But it was long enough. Esfera rammed the rage demon with her shield as hard as she could, shattering it into thousands of glass-like pieces, then picked Sophia’s still-hot blade off of the stone floor and slashed at the shade, cutting it down before it could dig its claws into Morrigan’s skin. Protect, and protect alike.

Demon fell, the veil closed a little. Demon fell, the veil closed a bit more.

Some of the demons got through her armor, but as their claws brought forth blood, they shrieked, retreating from the red liquid as if it burned them.

But finally it was done. The veil was closed, little more than whispers escaping from it.

“I submit myself to your judgement, Grey Warden,” Avernus said, his staff discarded, his arms open, accepting.

She was so… tired. Anger, sorrow, grief… they were so exhausting. And there had been _so much death_.

“Can you make the Grey Wardens stronger?”

“Did it not work on you?”

“...it did.”

“Then allow me to continue my research in the days I have left!”

She struggled to her feet, leaning on Sophia’s sword. She grabbed him by the collar again, glaring into his eyes. “You will never use blood magic again. Never summon another demon. _Ever_ . Nothing you do from now on will harm a single soul. But you will spend every _second_ of your unnatural life helping the Grey Wardens. It is the least you can do to repay those you sacrificed.”

She let him go and he scrambled back to the tower. 

Around her, Esfera could feel the eyes of her companions, some of them worried, some of them confused.

“You should go check on Levi,” she whispered, still leaning heavily on Sophia’s sword. “This keep is his now, after all.”

She heard footsteps depart, even her dog, whimpering as he left. She was falling apart, and she knew it. None of them could understand why. None of them except Alistair, who was still standing in the doorway, looking at her the same way she had looked at him in the shadow of Flemeth’s hut, the day they’d left for Lothering.

“It’s because it was Grey Wardens who did this, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she answered, the word so simple, and yet upon its release she felt as if she had exhaled her first breath since entering the keep. “I know there is more to them than heroic legends, but they were willing to destroy _everything_ for a cause they should never have had in the first place. And… how different am I? From Sophia, from Avernus… Everything we’re doing… helping Arl Eamon… standing up against Loghain… we’re interfering in politics! We’re doing exactly what Grey Wardens _aren’t_ supposed to do!”

Alistair moved toward her, uncertain, unprepared. “It bothers me just as much as it does you. But _we’ve_ got a Blight to deal with. Sophia didn’t.”

“That’s just it!” she yelled, letting Sophia’s sword fall and crumpling in on herself. “I don’t feel as if I have any _choice!_ I _need_ these armies, I _need_ to defeat the Blight, but I’m _barely_ a Grey Warden! There’s _so much I don’t know_ . Sophia Dryden was Warden-Commander, and if she weren’t possessed by a demon, there’s--! She could’ve told me _so much,_ I… I could be much better for Ferelden instead of scrambling about on my hands and knees, but I _killed her!_ I killed her because it was the right thing to do, but was it?! I thought it was the right thing to do because she was just a _demon_ , a demon inhabiting a corpse, but… in the long term, did I make the right decision?! _Am_ I a Grey Warden?”

She felt arms close around her, felt herself fall into an embrace she’d been craving for weeks without knowing it. 

“Nothing I say is going to make this better, is it?”

“No,” she admitted, struggling to bring her breathing back down to a normal level. “But you’re the only other one who… who sees the dreams. Who sees what we’re facing. Just the two of us.”

“Just the two of us,” he repeated, his hand smoothing her hair down as she pressed her face into the collar of his armor, breathing in the scent of sweat and blood and… spice. Something sweet, plain, she couldn’t quite place.

“I just wish there had been more.”

“Yes… so do I.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Alistair~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a frightening thing, to see Esfera Cousland break. _He_ had a fairly weak heart, he’d readily admit. But for _her_ , who had lost _everything_ and yet never cried even once to become reckless, impulsive… something was very, very wrong.

The previous night, he’d had the nightmares, too. Particularly nasty, darkspawn calling out to him, reaching for him as if pulling him out of a grave. He didn’t talk about them much-- with the other Wardens it had been a simple fact of life. But he’d forgotten that Esfera hadn’t _been_ a Warden for very long, that unlike him, she’d never had the chance for training, for explanations, for _comfort_. And he was punishing himself for that now.

He’d never liked being a leader. Too much responsibility, decision-making, order-giving… it had been easy to just let it all slide onto Esfera’s shoulders, for her to carry it without question or complaint. She just had one of those voices that you wanted to listen to, he’d told himself when they first met. But it was more than that. Of course it was more than that.

She was insistent that she was no longer a noble, but… he still saw so much in her that _was_ nobility. Not in the sense of being rich, but just… how kind she was, how forgiving. The way she constantly strove to use her strength to protect the weak, no matter who they were. He didn’t know if he would’ve forgiven Zevran, but _she_ did. And that was _too_ good of her. 

If he’d been a bit less lousy as the senior Warden, he wouldn’t have to be holding her right now, he reminded himself. She would have been able to ask _him_ questions, rather than go hunting for answers. It made him wish, for the thousandth time, that he could have switched places with Duncan, back in Ostagar. He was Warden-Commander; he had the information Esfera needed right now. The information _Alistair_ needed right now.

But Duncan was gone, and now Alistair was all Esfera had, Grey Warden-wise. And… it felt nice to hold her. Not that he liked the reasoning for it, of course. Comfort _only._ As a friend. A comrade-in-arms. Nothing weird at all. Not like he’d been _dying_ to bury his fingers in her hair for weeks. To trace her scars with his fingers, to feel her warmth...

Okay, yeah, you caught him. He had feelings for her.

He wasn’t _completely_ stupid-- he just had no idea what to do about them. Sure, she’d told him he was handsome and she accepted his corny rose and kissed his cheeks and held his hand, but… this was Esfera he was thinking about. She was kind of… touchy-feely with everyone. She even offered hugs to Sten.

Seriously. _Sten._

But that didn’t matter right now! This was not the time to think about how _he_ felt. Not the time to think about roses or kisses or nobility… just a cracked stone floor, a broken sword, bloodstained silver armor, and the woman in his arms who was _not_ immortal, no matter how easy it had been to think she was.

But after a while, her breath evened out and she pulled away from him, her cheeks pink. From embarrassment, probably. She got to her feet, picking up Sophia’s sword as she did, then frowning at it and tossing it away. “Let’s join the others.”

By the time she emerged into the late evening air, all traces of vulnerability had vanished from her face, her stature, her voice. The others were concerned, but any of their questions were deflected only with “I feel much better now.”

Without much discussion of it, the group readily began helping Levi Dryden… clean up. First, a few more sweeps of the keep to make sure there were no stragglers, demonic or undead. Then building the fire in the courtyard, big enough to consume the dozens of corpses they dragged out of the castle.

Esfera herself brought Sophia Dryden’s body out to the courtyard, divested of her Warden-Commander armor so that she would burn more easily. But before she tossed the body onto the pyre, she turned to Levi, asking him if he would like to say a few words.

“No, I think I’m happy with what my family has made of itself. I don’t really know how to feel about my great-great-grandmother and what she did, but I was able to come to terms with it, thanks to you, Warden. I think I can let go of the past.”

Alistair noticed her hesitate for a moment, then nod, tossing the body into the flames. They all watched the bodies burn for a while, the mountain cold kept at bay by the warmth of the fading dead. It smelled awful, but there was relief in it, in watching Grey Wardens finally put properly to rest in a way those lost at Ostagar had never received. And the higher the flames rose, the more he felt just a little bit of the evil in the place wear away.

They stayed at Soldier’s Peak for a few days, both recovering their strength and sweeping the keep for any weapons, tools, and research materials that may be useful in their struggle against the Blight. And good thing they did, too, because Leliana managed to decode some secret messages that led them to the hidden weapons cache of Warden-Commander Asturian, including his ancient, very nice sword.

But when they’d presented it to Esfera, she’d swung it a couple of times and then frowned, handing it to Alistair. “The weight is just all wrong,” she said.

“You _need_ a weapon, you know. Not that you’re not _capable_ of killing people with just your shield, as we both know… but it’ll be a little bit easier with a sword.”

“I--” she untied the sheath of her broken blade from her belt, frowning down at it. “I won’t feel _right_ without it. It has been like an extension of my arm.”

She was still frowning down at it when they heard the creaking of wagon wheels and looked up to see a gruff-looking man with a permanent frown, who led a pair of oxen pulling a cart that rattled with metal. He came to a stop in front of them, glancing them both up and down. “You Wardens?”

“No,” Alistair immediately answered, but Esfera smacked his arm.

“Yes, we are. And you are?”

“Dryden.”

Alistair glanced over at Levi, still setting up his shop at the foot of the keep and nervously watching Zevran sharpen his swords, then back at the newcomer. “Not… much family resemblance, is there?”

“I’m Mikhael, the only blacksmith in the family,” he replied dryly, then noticed Esfera still looking down at her sheath. “Something wrong with your sword?”

“Quite,” she answered, sliding first the hilt, then the broken shard, out of the sheath. She held them out to him, her brow furrowing. “Can you repair it?”

Mikhael took the sword pieces from her, holding them up to the light and scowling. Well, maybe he didn’t scowl so much as his face _always_ looked like that. “Not without reforging the whole bloody thing. Which I’ll do if you pay me for it, but it’ll never be the same again.”

“I… suppose you’re right.” Alistair noticed her face fall, but then suddenly brightened, taking her pack from her shoulders and digging through it for a few seconds before pulling out the meteorite from before. “What about this?!”

At _this_ , Mikhael Dryden suddenly looked interested, trading the broken pieces of sword for the lump of glowing metal. “This… this is _starmetal_. Where did you get this?!”

“I found it in a crater. Right before getting attacked by a group of assassins. Though I’m fairly sure the two things are unrelated.”

Mikhael hefted the metal in his hands, seeming like even he was struggling with the weight of it a bit. “There’s… some dried blood on it.”

Glancing at Zevran, Esfera answered, “yes, it, uh… hit someone on the way down.”

“I see… well if you give this to me I will craft for you a thing of legend!”

“I dunno,” Alistair interrupted. “She’s pretty lethal with it as-is.”

“This metal is unlike any other, I promise you,” Mikhael continued, beginning to pace with the metal in his hands, holding it up to the light so that its glow sent shards of light dancing across Esfera’s face. “As it is now, it is incredibly dense, but once bonded to iron… iron like that of your broken blade, Ser… it will be light as willowbark, stronger than dragonbone. Just to be given the chance to work it is a miracle in itself!”

Well, that _did_ sound appealing. But Alistair watched Esfera hesitate, running her finger gently over the Cousland family crest carved into the hilt of her broken blade. But then she closed her eyes and nodded. “Please, Mikhael Dryden. If you have the skill your brother told me you do… use my family’s sword and this starmetal to make a longsword strong enough to slay an archdemon.” She held the pieces out to him, but after he set the starmetal onto his cart and was about to take them away from her, she pulled back quickly. “But I want to keep the hilt as-is as much as possible, if you could.”

“I’m the best damn blacksmith outside of Orzammar, Lady Cousland. I’ll get you your sword. I just gotta get my forge set up first.”

“O-oh! Of course! Here, I’ll help.”

She immediately jumped into action, working to unload the cart, and Alistair smiled to himself, at the way she let Mikhael Dryden boss her around, where to put the axes, get him some firewood… as if she hadn’t just lifted an entire _anvil_ out of his cart without even breaking a sweat. She kept herself in motion to keep her mind off of what was bothering her. That was always what she had done, wasn’t it? That’s why it was so easy not to see when it became too much.

But soon Soldier’s Keep was ringing with the sound of hammer against anvil, and they were sitting around a campfire, drinking mead from the keep’s stores alongside the still-arriving members of the Dryden family, who were making Soldier’s Peak their new trade outpost.

Esfera insisted that Leliana sing, because “she does have _such_ a lovely voice,” and Levi regaled his family members with the tales of their adventure into the keep, though Alistair noticed that he left out a _lot_ of key details about Sophia. Most notably the demons. 

And the Dryden kids _loved_ Sten. Or were fascinated by him, really. Why he wasn’t drinking mead. Why he was so tall. Why he didn’t have horns. If Qunari really eat people. Alistair kind of expected him to snap and push them away, but surprisingly, he never did, just patiently answered each question simply and honestly, even if the answer didn’t seem to make any sense to Alistair, or apparently Esfera, who appeared to have given up on asking any questions of him. 

But finally, the night winding to a close, Levi lifted his mug in Esfera’s direction. “To the Grey Wardens!”

“To the Grey Wardens!” Alistair cheered along with the Dryden family, lifting his mug in response.

“You’ll always be welcome with the Dryden family; that’s a promise. And you can keep your stuff here, if you like. So you don’t have to carry it all. We’ll keep it safe for you.”

At this, Esfera looked down at her mug and smiled. “I’m trusting you, Dryden. But don’t go back on your word, now. I’ve been stocking up. You’re going to have armies coming through here looking for arms and armor.”

“That’ll be good for business!”

But then she was turning and pulling the shield off of her back, setting it into the snow at Levi’s feet. It was… in pretty bad shape. It had been a bit dinged and dented even before the battle at Ostagar, but now it looked _much_ worse. Blackened from rage demon fires, slashed by blades of stronger stuff than grey iron, cracked on the edges… the symbol of Highever was almost unrecognizable on its surface.

“Of all things that you keep safe… do find a special place for this, would you?”

Alistair blinked at her. “Your shield, too?”

She nodded, looking tired all of a sudden. “I have much to do yet. Uncover why Orzammar has gone quiet, wake Arl Eamon from his slumber, recruit more than _one_ mage to my cause… I cannot do so with outdated equipment. I would say I am moving on from the past, but… that is not entirely true. I hold it dearly, for I would not be here without it. That is why I cannot bear to sell it. So if Levi thinks he can keep it safe until I discover whether my brother has lived or died… I would be most grateful.”

~~~~~~~

They stayed at Soldier’s Peak until the starmetal sword was finished, in the meantime exploring the mountain passes, hunting for food, keeping their ears out for rumors of the goings-on in Denerim.

Esfera kept herself busy training some of the younger Drydens in combat basics, so that they would know how to defend themselves. It was actually quite amusing, to see three shopkeepers charge at her at once and then get uselessly flung aside, although she was completely unarmed.

Sometimes, she would borrow one of Mikhael’s older works and spar with her companions, using each match as a learning opportunity. With Sten it was “this is how you take down an opponent both bigger and stronger than you are.” With Zevran it was “what to do if you lose sight of your opponent,” with Leliana it was “the proper way to hold a shield in order to deflect missiles,” with Morrigan it was “sometimes your opponent is ruthless and you just have to deal with it,” and with Alistair it was “don’t be intimidated if your opponent has nice equipment; you can still beat him if he’s a big, soft, baby.” Well, okay, really it was more about technique, but after the fourth time getting knocked on his ass, he was starting to feel like that _was_ the real lesson there.

The “nice equipment” being both Sophia Dryden’s Warden-Commander armor and the sword Esfera had rejected, Asturian’s Might. Personally, Alistair was glad to have both-- they were _way_ better than his old stuff. Unlike Esfera, he didn’t have any particular attachment to it, so it was pretty cool to have the enchanted sword in his hand, along with the darkspawn-killing rune that Sandal had installed in it.

Not that it was all that helpful against Esfera with a simple steel blade and a wooden shield, because she kept knocking him on his ass anyway.

When Mikhael finally emerged from his forge and presented the finished blade to Esfera, Alistair had to admit he was pretty relieved.

It _was_ an incredible-looking sword. It was _long_ , even for a longsword, with wicked curves in its shape. But most eye-catching were the spirals of glowing energy that ran through it, like lyrium but not quite, just a tad more greenish than blue.

Esfera received it with a smile, swinging it around a few times and smiling wider, running her finger again over the Cousland family crest still carved into the hilt, further embossed by starmetal poured into its design. “It is _perfect_ , Mikhael. I cannot thank you enough.”

“Thank me by keeping darkspawn out of my forge.”

She laughed, sliding the sword into its specially-made sheath on her back, then lifted the Ironbark shield the Dalish craftsman had made for her but she had only just begun using. “I am a Grey Warden. I would do that without you asking.”

Not that a _little_ gratitude wasn’t rewarding.

But it was time to move on. They had mages to talk to, and he was a bit disturbed to admit that he was looking forward to it. He was kind of hoping for a healer, honestly. Morrigan _could_ heal wounds, but she wasn’t all that good at it, and would only do so begrudgingly if asked. And he’d rather pour salt water straight from the ocean onto his injuries than have to ask _her_ for help. Mostly because that’s what her healings tended to feel like, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This bitch HEAVY!  
> ...YEET!


	6. Dreams

All around her was darkness, darkness only. A swirling blackness that hid everything from sight, even the moving shapes of her own body as she walked, one hand on an invisible wall. Her footsteps resounded, hollow, echoing through eons of space and returning to her. All was dark, all was quiet. She was alone. Why was she alone?

Why should she not be alone? She couldn’t remember.

And who was “she,” anyway? How did she know she was female?

But she did know. She was certain. And a name? Did she have a name?

It did not matter, in this darkness. She walked, unsure of where she was walking to, why she was walking. But she did not merely want to stand still in the shadows, waiting for something to change. It did not feel right.

Walking, walking somewhere. Where? Somewhere.

The wall under her hand disappeared. In its place there were… bodies. Living, breathing… walking. Like her, all the same way, walking to somewhere. Somewhere nameless, nameless themselves.

Somewhere, something, someone.

Someone?

Why was she walking? What was she doing? Who were these people?

Why was it so dark?

There were so many footsteps, resounding against stone and shadow that she wondered if her ears would bleed. If she had ears at all. Perhaps she would know if she touched them. Perhaps if she covered them, the footsteps would be quieter.

So she did. She lifted her hands to her ears and… the footsteps disappeared. All was silent, all was dark.

And then the song came.

Wordless, without verse or refrain but beautiful, enchantingly beautiful, a song sweeter than any she had ever heard before. A song full of memory, of stories, if only she could understand it.

Perhaps if she got closer… yes, if she went towards it, she would be able to understand the words. The footsteps all around, they were nothing but drumbeats accompanying the distant voice. They were pleasant to her now. She should go toward the voice. If she did, she would hear, she would learn, she would understand. They should all go, everyone, to understand. 

She smiled as she walked, ready to hear the voice clearly. But there was something else there. Another voice, soft, like it was being whispered in her ear.

_Esfera._

What an odd sound. What did that have to do with the voice?

 _Esfera_.

Wait… it sounded familiar. It was… a word. No… a name. Whose name was it?

_Esfera._

Esfera… yes, was that _her_ name?

“Esfera, wake up!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lothering, already burning. The ground black with both soot and corruption, tattered remains of refugee tents carried to the sky on the currents of hot air, the same currents that pulled her hair loose and flicked it through the air, raven-black tendrils swiping through the curtain of red and orange all around her.

She looked down and saw her axe in her hands, gleaming in the firelight, thirsty for blood. And blood she would give it. Darkspawn blood.

They stepped out of the flames as if born from them, dozens of grim faces twisted into permanent, hideous grins. With a single spin of her axe, their heads severed from their necks, sailing and disappearing into the flames. But as they fell, more took their place, more fell to her axe, more took their place.

She turned back toward the ruins of the refugee camp, and there she saw a little girl.

Untouched by the flames, her black hair pinned up in delightful little curls that shone in the firelight, her red dress unmoved by the wind.

“You couldn’t save everyone, Naiyah Hawke.”

Hawke turned back toward the lines of darkspawn she had cut down, but they were gone now, vanished in the fire that mysteriously never touched her.

“I know I couldn’t.”

“It infuriates you.”

“Hell yes it does.”

“That rage… it fills you.”

“Nah, not really.”

“It _does_. It burns so fiercely that it hurts, doesn’t it?”

“...maybe.”

The little girl smiled, holding her tiny hand out to Hawke. “It doesn't have to hurt. It’s alright, Hawke. It’s alright to feel anger. Break things, _hurt_ things… you deserve it. It’s what you were made for.”

“I wasn’t _made_ , I was born.”

“Same thing.”

Hawke turned the head of her axe toward the ground, leaning on the end of its shaft and peering down at the little girl. “What do you want?”

“I want what’s best for you. Don’t you see? You are _so_ angry…at your country for leaving you to die, at your brother for charging forward against your will, at your mother for blaming you for all of it, and then at Athenril for destroying your trust... If you keep all of your rage inside, it will only destroy you.”

“Hasn’t done it yet.”

“That isn’t a challenge, Hawke.”

“Isn’t it?”

She lifted her axe and swung, cutting the little girl clean in half from her head down through her waist. She fell, her sweet little face split right through the surprised “O” of her mouth. It would have been sad if the flames all around her hadn't died the instant the child was slain.

“I’m not keeping my rage locked inside. But nice try.” She stepped over the child’s body, toward the road leading out of Lothering. “ _You’re_ the only person I’ve ever really been angry at.”

Those black curls had never wanted to stay in her hair. It was too thick and smooth-- they always pulled themself straight in mere hours. And she’d hated that red dress, with its white ribbons and puffed sleeves. It had always been so itchy. She couldn’t do anything in it, for fear of getting it dirty. The epitome of a useless, powerless little girl.

But that little girl was long gone. She didn’t _know_ what that thing had been.


	7. Esfera Cousland-The Waking World

“Esfera, wake up!”

She rose into the waking world as if from deep underwater, like the act of waking was a deliberate effort, but also that in the darkness she had not been breathing and was now desperate for air.

She opened her eyes with a gasp and found Leliana crouched over her, fully armed and armored, but looking down at her with concern.

Esfera sat up quickly, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “What is it?! Is something wrong? Did something happen?”

“No, it was only odd for you to sleep in. You’re always so punctual. But you wanted us moving again just after sunrise and, well… sunrise was some time ago. The men were starting to get concerned. I decided that if anyone should check on you, it should probably be me.”

A soft whimper came from Leliana’s side, and Esfera looked past her to see Cookie, sitting with his head cocked to the side.

“Ah, _and_ Cookie, of course. Though part of the problem, it seems, is that _he_ was enjoying cuddles and was snapping at anyone who tried to wake you up.”

Esfera took a moment to absorb Leliana’s words, then chuckled a little, leaning over and lightly bopping the dog on the nose. “Naughty dog! We’ve lost an hour of time because of you!”

She stood up to begin taking down her tent, then noticed Leliana was still looking at her. “What is it?”

“I just… um… rarely see you out of your armor.”

Esfera blinked down at herself, dressed in her usual linens. “Is there something wrong with my clothes?”

“N-no, I only find it… unusual. Pay no mind. I will leave you to finish getting ready.” She started to leave, then turned back. “I just want you to know how much I admire you. You are… so strong, and I don’t only mean your sword-arm.”

Esfera paused, her breastplate in hand, then smiled. “I… thank you.”

“Do you need help to put your armor on?”

“It would certainly make it faster,” Esfera admitted.

Leliana smiled, taking the breastplate from her and stepping behind her, helping her to buckle it on. They were silent as they did this, before Esfera finally chose the words she wanted to say.

“To be honest, Leliana, _I_ admire _you_.”

“Me?”

Esfera took Leliana’s hand, lifting it toward herself. “Do not be so surprised. Regardless of your past, you are many wonderful things. Gentle, caring, patient. You can play music and sing and charm all those who listen, all things my mother wished me to be able to do, but I never could. I rejected those things, growing up, because I felt that if there was anything about me that was not entirely a warrior, I would not be treated _as_ a warrior. And I think it was true, at least among nobility. All about the image, you know. But upon meeting you… I appreciate those things. They do not seem like weaknesses, when _you_ embody them.”

Staring down at their joined hands, Leliana’s face pinkened a bit. “Oh… well… those are all tricks of a bard’s trade. Tools to get what I want.”

“But if they were only tools, you would use them _only_ when you needed them, Leliana. But you sing even as you walk, you tell stories merely because you love them, and you are kind simply because you can be. I meant it when I said I liked your version of the Maker’s world better than the Chantry’s. You have beautiful sight. I wish you only did not look so sad when you said it.”

“I… didn’t think you noticed.”

“You are my _friend_ , Leliana. Of course I notice.”

~~~~~~~~

As soon as Esfera was dressed and had readied her pack for travel, they continued on the road toward Lake Calenhad and the entrance to Kinloch Hold, the Circle Tower. For the first time, she tried to keep her distance from Alistair, still feeling a bit embarrassed for breaking down on him. And, she’d realized, she relied on him quite a bit-- far too much, really. It was not as if her other companions were unreliable. Except perhaps Zevran. 

Not that he didn’t have interesting stories to tell. Interesting, but sad, although he didn’t seem to see it that way. That it was a mere “fact of life.” And he only seemed amused when Esfera insisted that no, no it wasn’t, no one should have to live that way.

“You say that, but I notice you almost never seem to want to bring me on any of your scouting missions,” he noted, spinning his dagger in his hands as they walked.

“I have developed some affection for your wit and charm, I admit,” Esfera snorted, pushing aside a low-hanging branch, “but I don’t actually _trust_ you any further than I could throw you.”

“But I think you could throw me quite far, Warden.”

She froze, still holding the branch. “Ah-- I… you _know_ what I meant, Zevran!”

She let it go and it snapped back into position, very nearly smacking the elf in the face, if he didn’t have such good reflexes. Which was almost disappointing, really.

And Sten, she still didn’t quite understand Sten. Last time she’d talked to him, he’d asked her how she could possibly be both a woman _and_ a warrior. And not in a nice way, either. He’d asked it as if to be both was to be both a human and a garden snail. A horrible combination, truly. Honestly, she’d had no idea how to respond. She’d tried to ask for clarification, but it just resulted in a back-and-forth about roles versus identity that resulted in them _both_ frustrated and confused. Finally, she’d just thrown up her hands and said, “I am a warrior, first and foremost. If you can’t think of me as both a warrior and a woman, then think of me as a man, if you wish.”

Oddly enough, he’d seemed satisfied with that answer, which only baffled her further. She’d said it somewhat sarcastically, but he’d only nodded and continued on. But now she felt bad about saying so, considering her conversation with Leliana that morning. It was time to try conversing with Sten again.  
“So, Sten… the Revered Mother told me that you killed an entire farmhold. Is… that true?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Have you not asked me this question before?”

“I did. And you told me it didn’t matter. But it does, and you know it.”

“You are concerned that you should not have convinced her to release me.”

Esfera started to shake her head, then reconsidered. “It’s a grave crime, Sten. Surely even the Qunari would think it cruel to slaughter those who have given aid without thought of repayment?”

“...yes.”

“So… why?”

When he explained to her about his lost sword, at first Esfera wanted to tell him that it was only a sword, that he could get another one, but she stopped herself before doing so. It had not been so long before that she had broken her family’ sword and temporarily lost her sanity as a result. Avernus’ draught appeared to have done more good than harm, but still, she had not acted nobly. She had no right to criticize Sten.

“We will get it back, Sten.”

“I know you are only saying that to be kind, but… I thank you all the same.”

“Sten, I am not a liar. Have you known me to tell a lie?”

“Not with any success.”

“Part of me wants to be offended by that. But that’s not my point-- I swear it; we will find this sword. And we’re going to Lake Calenhad anyway! It’s not even an inconvenience.”

“Yes. Now if you are done asking about useless things, we should continue on.”

~~~~~~~~~

Upon arriving at Lake Calenhad’s docks, Esfera first confronted the scavenger digging through piles of bones for the location of Sten’s sword, only to find that it was gone, to some merchant in the Frostback Mountains. Which they were still nowhere near. Disappointed, Esfera urged the man to run away and contemplate his actions, then moved forward to the rest of the lakeside village.

She noted the Templar at the water’s edge and stepped closer to Morrigan, keeping herself between the mage and the Templar’s line of vision. She maintained this, even as she conversed with the ferryman, who informed her that something was happening in the tower, for his boat had been confiscated by the Templars and he didn’t know why. This worried her, but she wanted to make sure they were fully supplied before they crossed the lake.

But first, she noticed a man standing alone, looking out over the lake, and remembered a job she had accepted from the Blackstone Irregulars.

“Excuse me, ser… are you, perchance… Sammael?”

He turned, his expression guarded, suspicious. “I am. Who wants to know?”

“I’m Esfera, a Grey Warden. I’m here on behalf of the Blackstone Irregulars, who…”

She heard a gurgling sound from behind her and spun, her hand on the hilt of her new sword, to see a man holding a dagger above his head, ready to plunge it into her back.

But he’d never gotten the chance, thanks to the sword protruding from his gut. The gurgling was, apparently, the sound of him choking on his own blood. But it ended as he fell, revealing Zevran behind him, raising an eyebrow.

“Really, these amateurs have no sense of _style_.”

Esfera snorted, whipping Starfang out of its sheath just fast enough to deflect a strike from Sammael, who was taking advantage of her moment of distraction to attack. She was delighted when, with her second strike, Starfang simply sliced the man’s simple steel blade in half, leaving him defenseless. He attempted to run, but Zevran raised his own sword, just the right height for his neck. Sammael was lucky he stopped just in time.

“Please, Sammael,” Esfera urged, “return yourself and the goods to the guild.”

“Since when does a _Grey Warden_ work for mercenaries?”

“Since they have promised to be honorable. Something you clearly would not understand.”

“I cannot go back with you.”

“I don’t know if he _has_ any honor, Warden,” Zevran piped up. “Perhaps we should just kill him.”

Esfera crossed her arms, scowling. “I would like to avoid that, when possible. Return with the guild supplies, and I may convince the Irregulars to end your employment mercifully, Sammael. It is either that or my friend ends your life.”

“Oh? I am your friend now?” Zevran asked.

“Oh hush. Do we have a deal, Sammael?”

“You give me your word?”

“Yes.”

She nodded to Zevran, who shrugged and lowered his sword, retrieving a cloth from one of the pockets on his belt and wiping off the blade as he watched Sammael run away.

“I will bet you ten silvers he doesn’t give the supplies back.”

“He will.”

“And why are you so certain?”

Esfera smiled to herself, pointing down to the ground. “Because he soiled himself. You see? I think we made enough of a lasting impression.”

They rejoined the others, who apparently had stocked up on plenty of resources from the tavern and were ready to head over to the Circle, the thought of which made Esfera eager and nervous all at once. Eager to learn of the fate of her dear friend and tutor. Nervous because, as ferryman Kester had mentioned, there was something _off_ about the tower.

But Carroll, the Templar now in charge of the ferry, was not particularly forthcoming, no matter her insistence on being a Grey Warden or the importance of acquiring the mages’ aid against the Blight.

“Please, can’t we work something out?” she asked, tapping her gloved fingers against the armor over her thigh.

“I see that dark-eyed temptress behind you. Leave her with me and I’ll be sure you get across safely.”

As soon as he said this, Esfera winced, but she needn’t have worried. Morrigan’s response was much more measured than Esfera’s would have been, but just as visceral. That he would not have eyes or various other body parts after their “wonderful night together” was… a bit of an extra touch. Very Morrigan.

He crumbled instantly, hurrying to get the boat ready. Morrigan smirked at Esfera, moving to go after him, but Esfera caught her arm.

“Perhaps you should stay here, Morrigan.”

“Why?”

“Because I am not a fool, you know. Skilled as you are, I am not bringing an apostate mage into a Templar stronghold. You would be significantly outnumbered and would not have the option of escaping into the Wilds.” Esfera frowned, glancing back at Carroll. “And… it’s not that large a boat. It can’t possibly fit us all.”

“You are concerned after my safety? I assure you, Warden, I--”

“ _Please_ , Morrigan. I would not forgive myself if you shared Kinsey’s fate.”

Morrigan scowled at her for a long while, then sighed. “Fine. But you had better bring me something useful from that tower.”

“Is an army not useful?”

“A grimoire, actually. Something my mother lost, the one time the Templars almost caught her. Bring that back to me, and I will hardly even be upset at having been left behind.”

“I will see what I can do.” She smiled, tapping Sten on the shoulder. “You should probably stay behind too.”

“With the mage? Again?”

“You can be with _one_ mage or a whole _tower_ of mages, Sten. Take your pick.”

“I see your point. I will stay here, then.”

Patting his shoulder, an act he had absolutely no reaction to, she turned back to the others. “Alright, let’s go get this over with.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The situation in Kinloch Hold was much, much worse than “weird.”

“What?! You can’t seriously be thinking of _killing_ everyone in there!”

“The Circle is so overrun by demons we will only lose what men have been able to escape. It is _lost._ The Rite of Annulment is the only way to keep the demons from escaping to the town.”

“There are _children_ in there! And some of your _own_ men!” Esfera shouted, leaning into Knight-Commander Greagoir’s face. “I won’t let you do this! I’ll save them myself if I have to!”

Before he could argue, she pushed past him and broke into a dead sprint through the gates, just as the other Templar was beginning to shut them, pushing him out of the way. She heard more footsteps behind her, but only turned back to look when she heard the door slam.

Only Alistair, Zevran, and Cookie were with her.

“What happened?!”

“Those bastards were gonna lock you in!” Alistair shouted, pointing back toward the door. “We got in just before they shut it.”

Esfera ran back to the door, pounding her fist against it. “Your cowardice is going to kill all of Ferelden, Greagoir! Is that what you want?!”

“I will not open this gate unless the First Enchanter himself says it is safe to do so,” Greagoir’s voice called through the stone and steel. “Unless that happens… you have until our reinforcements arrive, Warden. For what it’s worth… I sincerely hope you succeed.”

Esfera grit her teeth, shouting back through it, “Leliana! Tell Morrigan and Sten what happened!”

She didn’t wait for Leliana’s answer, only trusted that the bard would do the right thing. Turning back to the group, she clenched her fist, looking around at the tower. “I hate Templars.”

“I would be insulted, if I didn’t _kind of_ agree with you,” Alistair commented.

~~~~~~~~~~

Esfera was happy for the elemental resistances granted to her by the juggernaut armor when she saw the first of the demons. But it turned out that this one, at least, she did not have to fight, as the mages gathered in the main hall had it quite handled. They arrived just as it fell to the ground, the magical barrier it had entered through still quite intact. The white-haired mage who had felled the demon turned at the sound of their footsteps, her eyes widening with recognition, then narrowing with suspicion.

“It’s you! No, come no further. Grey Warden or no, I will strike you down where you stand.”

Esfera gasped. “Wynne? The mage from the Circle! You survived Ostagar?!”

“Yes, only to return to this chaos. Why are you here?”

Esfera looked around, feeling her body relax at the sight of the children huddled behind the robes of older mages. “I was to use Grey Warden treaties to ask the aid of the Circle mages against the Blight. But as far as why I have gotten past the Templars...Greagoir has called the Rite of Annulment. I… could not stand by and let it happen. Not when there are so clearly lives worth saving.”

She smiled encouragingly at the children, then back to Wynne.

“So Greagoir thinks the Circle is beyond hope… he probably assumes we are all dead. They abandoned us to our fate. But even trapped as we are, we have still survived. If they invoke the Rite, however, we will not be able to stand against them.”

“They will not get the chance, if we hurry,” Esfera answered. “But I need to know more about what happened.”

Wynne explained quickly about Uldred and his planned mage rebellion, followed by the mass takeover of demons, and then the barrier she had placed over the only door into this room to protect against the demons. And that her cries to let the children out fell on deaf ears. But if Esfera wanted to help her retake the tower, she would lower the barrier.

“Agreed,” Esfera answered immediately. “I am frankly eager for more aid. But…”

She whistled, and Cookie bounded to her side, tongue lolling.

“Cookie, I want you to stay with the children. Keep them safe, whether from demon or Templar.”

He barked.

“Good boy.” She straightened, turning back to Wynne. “Alright, let’s go.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Esfera ran her hands over the books in the library, shelves and shelves of spellbooks, histories, compendiums, dictionaries… in awe at the stores of knowledge. She wanted to stop, to read, to pore over the tomes in search of answers, but she knew they did not have the time for that. She wondered why Kinsey had left the Circle at all, when she’d had such sources of the history she’d loved so much right at her fingertips.

“Wynne?”

“Yes?”

“There was a Circle mage named Kinsey. Do… you know what happened to her?”

Wynne followed her gaze to the books, then frowned as she stepped over the body of a felled abomination. “There _was_ a mage by that name here, certainly. She had a love of history, I remember, but she was eager to use her skills. So far as I know, she never returned from her assignment.”

Esfera’s throat felt thick, her eyes stinging as her hand dropped from the bookcase. “I see.”

She glanced at Wynne, seeing the concerned expression on the mage woman’s face. “Let’s just move on.”

They pressed forward, mostly in silence, the weight of all of the death surrounding them pressing down. And _demons_ , so many _demons!_ As difficult as the battle at Soldier’s Keep had been, she was grateful at least for the experience. She knew how to prepare for the blasts of flame from the rage demons’ mouths, had figured out the weaknesses in a shade’s armor plating. It had come at the cost of quite a few scars, but they were making good time.

As Esfera watched the Tranquil mage, Owain, move past them toward the lower levels, which they’d thoroughly cleared of demons, she picked up a book from the ground and asked Alistair and Zevran, “so why was it the two of _you_ who made it through the doors?”

Zevran shrugged. “I am very fast.”

Alistair glared at him. “He’s very _slippery_ , is what he is. The _dog_ got through because he was fast. And I… I was just… closer. One of the Templars grabbed Leliana before she could come after us.”

“I… well, thank you.” She set the book back down, having established that it was not a grimoire. “Much as I dislike Templars, Alistair’s training has come in handy against Uldred’s blood mages. And Zevran… well…”

“My presence is a great comfort to you?”

“...it’s good to have another sword with me, at least.”

“Ah, still in denial, I see.”

Esfera snorted and pulled him into a hug, something he looked entirely unprepared for. She lifted him off the ground, cracking his back. “I am joking with you, Zevran.”

His cheeks were red when she put him back down and let him go, still in stunned silence as she continued through the Senior mage chambers, falling into step with Alistair.

“You were right behind me?” she asked, taking his hand.

“Always,” he answered, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Even though I’ve been avoiding you?”

“So you _have_ been avoiding me! And here I thought I was just being paranoid!”

Esfera bit her lip. “I… thought I was burdening you too much.”

“WHAT?!” He froze, mouth open, his sudden outburst loud enough to make Zevran and Wynne stop and stare, too. “No, _no_ , you keep burdening me. You don’t burden me _enough!_ Not when you’ve got to be a leader and a hero all in one package. I’d follow you into a _thousand_ demon-infested towers! It’s not even that bad! Okay sure, it’s a _little_ sad and terrifying, but I’m fine!”

Esfera felt her own lips twitch, then lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it, gently. “I promise it won’t be a thousand demon-infested towers, then. Only a hundred.”

“Oh, phew, a hundred? That’s not even that bad!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

More demons, more abominations, more books, more blood mages, more death, more sad, sad death. She was glad to have Wynne, though. The first few dozen enemies weren’t that bad, but after a while, she was starting to get tired. But Wynne was an _incredible_ healer. She seemed to know instantly when Esfera was hit, the wound sealing itself quite handily with a simple incantation.

Not to mention the woman’s general comforting presence. Although stern, catching Zevran every time he started digging through people’s belongings.

He deflected it pretty well, though, managing to steal some things when she wasn’t looking. Partially by commenting on her bosom.

Finally they arrived at First Enchanter Irving’s office, but sadly, he was nowhere to be found. Esfera began sifting through the shelves, then found a locked chest.

“Zevran, I could use your skills right now,” she called to him, and he practically skipped over.

At her shoulder, Wynne raised an eyebrow. “You are not above thievery, I see.”

Esfera sighed. “This place is a death trap right now. All of the effort I’ve gone through to save these mages, even the option for forgiveness I’ve given the blood mages… it will all mean nothing if we fail. The Templars will come and destroy this entire tower. I would respect Irving’s privacy more if _his_ life were not necessary to save the lives of everyone else.”

“Ah… that may not matter,” Zevran commented, lifting his lockpicking tools to the light and scowling down at the broken metal. “As I am not quite skilled enough to get it open.”

Esfera rolled her eyes, nudging him aside with her foot and picking up the chest. “Ugh, why do I even _bring_ you anywhere?”

She shook the chest, listening for what was inside, then gestured for Wynne and Alistair to move out of the way. Once they scattered, she slammed the chest into the ground with all of her might. Thankfully, it was only locked, not magically reinforced, so the only concern was dodging all of the flying wood splinters.

Once the dust cleared, she coughed and leaned over, digging through its contents. “I’m joking, Zevran. Oh… a grimoire?!”

She lifted the book and flicked through the pages, scanning the ancient writing. “It’s hard to read, and I think some of it’s in code, but… I think this is what Morrigan was looking for.”

“Oh good, something for the Wicked Witch of the Wilds.”

“Oh lay off, Alistair. I promised her something in exchange for staying behind. And… if the Templars do come before we can rescue First Enchanter Irving, we may be happy that she, Sten, and Leliana are there.” She slid the grimoire into her pack, looking around the room. “Nothing that will help us to take the tower, though.”

“You _are_ going to tell Irving about this, aren’t you?” Wynne asked, suspiciously.

“Of course. I’m not a thief. I’ll pay for a new chest, if he wants. But the book itself _does_ actually belong to one of my companions, and I’ll see it returned to her.”

“But you keep the company of thieves?”

“ _Assassin_ ,” Zevran corrected.

“Ah yes… that’s a marked improvement.”

Esfera nudged Zevran, stepping over the broken pieces of wood. “He _has_ to be an assassin, since he can’t even pick locks, apparently, despite claiming he could. So liar? Yes. Thief, no.”

“I’m sorry! I can pick locks, just not that one!”

“Just forget it, Zevran,” Alistair assured him, a hand on his back. “She’s never gonna let it go.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Both Esfera and Wynne grieved for the Templar they could not seem to free from the desire demon’s grasp.

“Just one more life wasted by this whole mess,” Esfera grumbled, laying the man’s shield over his chest.

“I thought you hated Templars,” Zevran asked, leaning against the door.

“Just because I don’t like them doesn’t mean I want them dead, Zevran. And this man just wanted love, a family. For that to be taken advantage of is… a cruelty I cannot condone.” She rose to her feet, shaking her head. “Let’s go.”

But they didn’t get far. Another fallen body, a room filled with… with growing flesh, as if the tower itself were changing into a living thing. A demon standing in the center of the room glaring down at them. No… not glaring. Glaring implied that there was any emotion in its eyes at all. Yet as she stared into his eyes she felt so tired, so exhausted, as if only its gaze was pulling all of the energy she had left from fighting her way through the tower. She reached for Wynne, hoping that the mage’s abilities were protecting her from whatever this creature was doing to them, but her eyes were already drifting closed, even as she warned them to fight it. The darkness was closing in again. It was time to sleep. No, not time to sleep. They didn't have time. But time didn't matter, not to this creature. Sleep came anyway. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_“Ah, there you are. I’m not disturbing you, am I?”_

_Duncan’s smile was infectious. Esfera almost ran toward him, resisting the urge to throw her arms around him. “Of course not!”_

_And it was. The huge pillars of grey stone were no invasion to the landscape of snow and mountain and trees all around them, catching the sunlight and gleaming. Everything seemed to be light, as if it all glowed with peace. She had never felt more at home anywhere except Highever._

_“I just wanted to make sure you were settling in here at Weisshaupt. These grand halls were built by the first Grey Wardens.”_

_Esfera tipped her head back, looking up at the murals painted on the ceilings, at the tiny details carved into the gryphons decorating every pillar. The stories this place could tell!_

_“Can you tell me more about them, Duncan? The Wardens of Old, how they beat back the darkspawn and slew the Archdemon… their strategies, their histories… I want to know everything.”_

_She was hungry for answers, even desperate for them. She_ needed _to know how to slay the archdemon._

_But why? Why was it so important? She was a Grey Warden, yes, but surely there would be time to learn such things, once she was fully trained._

_Duncan only chuckled. “You were there in the last great battle when the Archdemon was felled, and then we set the darkspawn tunnels ablaze. You were a hero, my dear.”_

_If she had been there, seen it… why couldn’t she remember? Who had slain the Archdemon? How had they done it?_

_“Where is Alistair,” she said, her voice a tone that carried more threat than question._

_“He is here. You will see him soon.”_

_“No… he was with me… in a tower. He said he was right behind me… always.” She squeezed her eyes shut, desperately trying to remember. Remember what Duncan was telling her was true. Because he was Duncan, he knew the answers to things. Why hadn’t she just gone to Duncan for answers before?_

_She shook her head. “This is wrong.”_

_“What is wrong, dear child?”_

_“All of this,” she answered. She found herself pulling a sword out of its sheath, a thing of beauty, glowing blue-green marks running through its blade, a wicked edge that could cut through steel. Starfang. Yes, Starfang. She had found it at a lost fortress, made it from the broken shards of her family sword. The fortress she had gone to looking for answers to the same questions Duncan was telling her now that she already knew the answers to._

_As she spoke, the world was already beginning to distort, to lose its golden glow and grow dark and gray, eerie and cold. “This is all wrong. I am in the Circle Tower, and Alistair, Zevran, and Wynne are with me. We never won the battle at Ostagar. And you… you are dead.”_

_Her voice caught as she said the last three words, her heart aching with the same powerful loneliness she had felt at Soldier’s Peak. There had been someone to catch her, then. Not so, now. But it didn’t matter. She would not break again._

_“Foolish child,” Duncan growled, his hand flying to his sword. “I have given you so much and you cast it back in my face! Can you not be content with the peace I offer?”_

_“I will never accept a happy lie. And peace for me does not mean peace for others.”_

_She lifted her shield, her heart pounding heavily in her chest. “‘In peace, vigilance,’ Duncan. Not complacency.”_

_“It seems only war and death will satisfy you! So be it! Have your war and your darkspawn! May they be your doom!”_

_The Grey Wardens she had passed on her way to Duncan turned on her the same instant Duncan unsheathed his sword, their fire coming from both sides. But they were no match for Starfang, which cut through them, armor and all. Even Duncan fell quickly, his body dropping to the stone floor in a helpless heap._

_And with that, if Esfera hadn’t been certain before that none of this was real, she was certain now. No matter how good her equipment was, how powerful she had become, these were_ Grey Wardens. _They would not fall so easily to her blade. And Duncan had been the Commander. He had fought beside her as she escaped from Highever, trained Alistair, been patient and kind. To kill him should have been a desperate fight. But instead it was easy._

_She sheathed her sword, noticing that it was bloodless, despite the fallen bodies around her. And then there was nothing but the stone pedestal in front of her, shining untouched in this chaotic distortion of her world._

_She laid her hand onto it, and instantly she was being pulled, dragged, although she knew she was not moving. Her eyes closed against the nausea, and when she opened them… she was somewhere else. Somewhere strange, somewhere she’d never been. Where the world didn’t make sense._

_This was the Fade._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_She was starting to get used to shapeshifting._

_The first time, certainly, feeling her body compress, shrink, change into the body of a mouse had been incredibly uncomfortable, but she felt… unlimited. A mouse’s body to go through small holes. A golem’s body to break down heavy doors. A burning corpse’s body to walk through raging fires. She finally understood Morrigan a bit better, now. She had put so much faith in her muscle and sinew, she had never realized just how limited it was. To be in the fade was to be beyond muscle, beyond training. The limit was only your understanding of power, and what was given to you._

_Niall, the mage she had met upon freeing herself from her dream of Weisshaupt, was ecstatic with each form she found, more and more certain that she could indeed get free, a far cry from his despair at the beginning. This was the same Niall that Wynne had told her had the Litany of Andralla, the scroll that would protect them from blood magic. She had to free him, no matter what._

_She felt as if she was being watched, though. Constantly. Not only by the hordes of… dream-wraiths that attacked her, obstructing her from searching for her companions, defeating the guardians of the dream-islands, and slaying the sloth demon that still held their true selves in unbreakable sleep, but other things. Things that did not attack, but were always at the corner of her vision, just out of reach._

_She rose out of a mousehole into her human form and looked around, finding a glowing lyre. “Glowing” being a word ill-suited to describing the heatless white fire that danced all around the thing, which hovered in place as if carried by some unseen hand._

_She waved her hand through it, the white fire catching under her hand like mist, and just as incorporeal._

_“Are you trying to help me?” she asked of the things that watched._

_“Strong woman,” she heard, echoing inside her mind._

_“Strong… yes, I try to be.”_

_“You seek the past.”_

_“I… yes, I do. I seek answers that lie in the past.”_

_“You have given guidance to many human souls trapped here. Why? Why not only save yourself?”_

_“Because…” she thought, still drifting her hands through the white fire. “I don’t know why. I just… want to. I want to help. Do I need a reason?”_

_The things that watched were silent for a while, and then the lyre began to play, a familiar song she could not remember hearing._

_“In you, we find kindness. Seek the past, kind, strong woman. Seek the past, and you will find your answers. You will be able to save the people you love. You can do this. We will help you do this.”_

_The song continued to play, the fire rising from the lyre and billowing through her, into her armor, ruffling her hair. But it was gentle, unburning. It filled her muscles, her heart, her mind. A tiny fire burning inside her, giving her more strength than she had known._

_“Our gift, strong woman. Enough strength to succeed.”_

_“What do you want in return?” she asked._

_“Seek the past!”_

_“Why?”_

_“Seek the past!”_

_Their voices faded with every word, until both the lyre and its music had disappeared entirely, and she was once again alone._

_She pushed forth, through the mouseholes and heavy doors and lines of fire to slay more demons. And with each one… instead of feeling weaker, she felt stronger. As if the things that watched were rewarding her for her success._

_She crashed into Zevran’s dream, confused as to why he was getting tortured. Why he was so calm about getting tortured. But it was a dream. Of course, a dream just like her dream of Duncan. But the sight of it made her want to wretch. That becoming a Crow required such misery… she could not stand it. She had destroyed the dream-wraiths imprisoning him, then ran to his side, freeing him from the odd machine. She was unsure why he resisted her insistence that he had already become a Crow, that he didn’t need anymore training, but eventually the fog seemed to clear. He needed to wake up from this dream, to understand, but… where was he going?!_

_Esfera tried to grab him, to hold him with her, but her hands passed through him as if through mist, just like the white fire from earlier. And then he was gone._

_She slammed her fist onto the torture device, hearing it crack under the blow. Why did she have to do this alone?! She hated being alone!_

_She forced herself to remain calm, to go back through another dream-island, to kill another demon, find another lost soul willing to offer her its power. This time, the power of an arcane horror, and to pass through doors that would not take living souls._

_She found Wynne, surrounded by bodies of dead mages, crying over them, running her fingers through their hair, berating herself for failing them. But_ she _didn’t fail them, Esfera told her. They were in the Fade; this was a dream, a trick. If they had died because of her, why didn’t she remember them dying?_

_Of course, as soon as Wynne’s expression relaxed and she accepted Esfera’s words as truth, the corpses of the fallen apprentices got to their feet and attacked, another round of dream-wraiths that Esfera squashed easily with the great stone fists of a golem._

_But Wynne, too, disappeared as soon as she realized she was in a dream. They were not free yet. They were free of their prisons, but none had escaped the sloth demon’s domain yet._

_After using the body of the arcane horror to slay the final demon guardian, Esfera looked down at her leathery, claw-like fingers, feeling them tingle with magic. Before such magic, dozens of enemies had fallen, easily. Such power! She was beginning to understand mages much more, now. How tempting it was to make the world bend to their will, to make fire and ice and lightning from their bare hands just because they_ could! _Of course it would tempt anyone._

_But such thoughts were full of greed. This power was not hers; it was only borrowed. She did not have magic, in truth. She had only the strength of her arms and legs. And the strength of her heart. All of this power was just… tantalizing temptation, to get her to stay in the Fade for a bit longer._

_But there was no point to the power the Fade gave her if she couldn’t use it to save people. All of this was useless._

_She stepped into another dream, infinitely relieved to find Alistair. And he, too, looked delighted that she was there, as if he had been expecting her. Much different from Zevran and Wynne, who hadn’t even remembered who she was._

_“I was just thinking about you! Isn’t that a_ marvelous _coincidence?”_

_“Alistair! Are you alright?” she asked, running to him, holding him by the shoulders and peering into his eyes. His dog-like eyes._

_“Of course I’m alright, silly! My sister is taking care of me. Oh, Goldanna, can’t we please have a guest for supper?”_

_The woman standing next to the floating table smiled. “Of course, brother. Any friend of yours is a guest of mine.”_

_Esfera blinked, turning back to Alistair. “Brother? You… have a sister?”_

_“Yes, yes! Isn’t it great?! We’re all one big happy family. And you, too! It’s so much_ better _when you’re here. I thought I would like being a Grey Warden, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life fighting, just to end up some long-forgotten corpse somewhere in the Deep Roads.”_

 _“I… I wish that wasn’t the case, too. But you’re_ still _a Grey Warden. With me.”_

_“Yes, with you! That’s the best part!”_

_“N-no… Alistair, think. Please. For me. Think about how you got here.”_

_“I… alright. It’s… a little fuzzy. I remember… a tower. The Circle! It was under attack! Are you saying that this… this is all a dream?”_

_“Yes, Alistair. I wish it wasn’t so. It would be so much easier to just… let this be true. In my dream, Duncan was alive and the Blight was over and we could just… rest. But as much as I want to stay for supper… we don’t have time. We can make this true. But it’s not true yet.”_

_He looked down at her hand on his arm and reached out to touch it, to trace the curves of her fingers with his own. “You’re… right. I do so_ want _it to be true.”_

_“Of course it’s true, dear brother,” the dream-wraith Goldanna snapped. “Now wash up before supper and I--”_

_“No, something… doesn’t feel quite right, here. I… I think I have to go. With Esfera.”_

_“You’re alright with leaving her?” Esfera checked._

_“She is my sister! But… she isn’t, is she?”_

_Goldanna forced herself between Esfera and Alistair, her voice changed, like Sophia Dryden’s had been. “No! He is mine! And I’d rather see him dead than free!”_

_Esfera grabbed her sword, just in time to repel a shade that had crawled out from the ground. Alistair, too, was moving, but slowly, as if each movement was forced, his mind still reeling._

_Esfera struck the dream-wraith of Goldanna down with her shield and then concentrated on the shades, shifting into her arcane warrior form and crushing them with a prison of magic._

_She finished them off just in time to see Goldanna’s form impaled onto Alistair’s sword, her mouth still twisted in anger. And then her body shifted, changed, into another desire demon._

_Alistair pulled his sword out of the demon’s ribcage, looking down at it in confused horror. “Gol...Goldanna?” He blinked, shaking his head, then opened his eyes, suddenly clear and bright again. “I… can’t believe it. How did I not see this earlier?”_

_“She… gave you what you wanted most. Just like the Templar earlier. A family. A normal life.”_

_“I… can’t believe it. How did I not see this earlier?” He turned toward her, then jumped back. “Woah! You’re just a demon too?!”_

_Esfera looked down at herself, then realized she was still in arcane warrior form. She shifted back, parrying Alistair’s sword just before he could bring it down on her. “Woah, woah, woah! No, it’s me. It’s really me. Remember what you said, the night of my Joining, before the Battle of Ostagar? About dancing the Remigold?”_

_He paused, completely confused for a second, but then brightened, smothering a laugh in his hand. “Oh, you remember the dress thing, do you?”_

_“Of course I do. It was the first time I’d laughed in ages. But you do still owe me.”_

_“Well… I’ll see about that once we get out of this stupid demon-infested tower.”_

_But he paused, looking up at the sky. “Wait, are we going now? But I’m not ready! Heeeey!”_

_And then he, too, disappeared._

_Esfera grit her teeth and spun back to the stone pedestal that had carried her to many places throughout this hellish dream. Now it was time to carry her to the final enemy._ _  
_ _~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_The relief she felt when her companions reappeared behind her as she confronted the sloth demon was… palpable. Even as she drove her sword through the demon, quickly dropping into a ball and rolling to her feet to dodge as it shapeshifted into an ogre. She sneered, clenching her fists. “Two can play at that game.”_

_It knocked Alistair off of his feet, but Esfera retaliated with a blast of ice from the arcane horror’s form, then shifted into the golem and shattered it with her fist. The pieces came together quickly, but she kept at it with her fists, feeling its blows against her skin, but knowing that this form could handle the attack much better than Alistair’s human one._

_And Wynne’s spells were keeping her wounds closed just as well as they had in the waking world, if not even better._

_The ogre smashed her golem form into the ground, and she gasped for breath, shifting into a mouse to dodge its relentless blows, scampering away and shifting back into herself just as the ogre transformed into a rage demon._

_Now the burning man’s form, so that the rage demon’s fiery breath did nothing but strengthen her, while Wynne’s ice spells held it in place for the two men’s swords to cut pieces out of it._

_Another shapeshift, an abomination, like the thing that was holding them asleep in the real world. This one was weak to fire, though. She gathered the flames around her burning body and blasted them into the creature, hearing it scream through the crackling of the fire, then scream again as a blade plunged into its back, seemingly from nowhere._

_Then a shade, the shadowy claws and insectoid armor. It reached for her with its claws, but she shifted into her human form, blocking it just in time with her shield._

_It crackled with electricity, and Esfera met Wynne’s gaze, giving her a quick smile which quickly disappeared as the shade managed to reach around her shield and dig its claws into the joints of her armor, piercing the skin underneath. She slashed out with her sword, cutting its arm off, but the claws had done damage, still impaled in her skin._

_They were burning at her, a burn more like acid than fire, and she knew that she could not leave them in. As Alistair stepped in front of her, taking the blows with his shield, asking her if she was alright, she dropped her sword, reached through her armor, and ripped out the claws with a gasp, feeling the blood begin to flow freely._

_But that couldn’t be right. This was the Fade. She was_ not _bleeding._

_But it still felt as though she was. She was getting dizzy._

_“Wynne!”_

_But Wynne was busy reflecting the attacks of the demon’s new form, an arcane horror just like Esfera had been. The mage had a barrier around herself, deflecting the demon’s column of ice, but it wouldn’t last forever._

_“Cut its damn… head off,” she gasped, fumbling for her sword._

_She froze, quite literally. Ice and snow swirled around her, the arcane warrior in the epicenter, its long-fingered hands risen in an invitation, a challenge, entirely at odds with its empty, dead eyes. Her body wasn’t responding, she couldn’t move, couldn’t…_

_Wynne’s barrier exploded, releasing a shockwave that smashed into the demon, causing the blizzard to abruptly die. Relieved, Esfera grabbed her sword and threw it, the blade plunging into the thing’s chest. But it wasn’t over. It was still moving, bearing down on Alistair, and he was resisting its spells, his hands flashing, but it was fast, it was magical, it was--_

_Still trapped in a crushing prison of magical force, Alistair was paralyzed as the demon loomed over him, long fingers wrapping around his head as it whispered things, things Esfera couldn’t quite hear._

_And Alistair’s face was relaxing. He wasn’t fighting anymore. He was…_

_Reaching up to Starfang, still embedded into the arcane horror’s chest. And ripping it out._

_Realizing what had happened, Esfera gathered her energy and ran at it with her shield, forcing it to pay attention to_ her _, to cast its freezing spell on_ her _, forgetting about the assassin with his sword and dagger, forgetting about the mage and the other Grey Warden._

_It turned toward her, clawed fingers out, grabbing at her shield and wrapping its fingers around her face, so that all she could see was darkness. All she could hear was singing._

_A familiar singing. A voice, more beautiful than she had heard before._

_And then its head tumbled off of its shoulders._

_Its fingers fell away and Esfera locked eyes with Alistair, his chest heaving, her glowing sword still in his hands._

_He smiled at her, then down at the sword. “We have_ got _to get me one of these.”_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first thing Esfera did upon waking was to check on her companions. Zevran woke with a groan, stretching his joints, and Wynne woke up slowly, blinking. And Alistair… Alistair sat up suddenly, explosively, reaching for her instantly.

“Esfera!”

“I’m here!” she answered immediately, catching him in her arms.

“Woah… that was… weird. And… awful.” He blinked, his eyes refocusing as he woke up further. “You’re… okay. Actually, you’re _more_ than okay. Did you get bigger?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Alistair.”

“No no, I think he’s right,” Zevran piped up, cracking his neck. “You are noticeably more… muscular than before. Not that you were particularly frail in the first place.”

Alistair seemed to realize that he was in her arms and suddenly jumped to his feet, his face bright red.

“I, ah… how did that happen? That’s weird. Can you still… shapeshift? Because that was… very useful.”

Esfera hid a smile, shaking her head. “Sadly, no. That was Fade-only. But… I did get some help, I think. Spirits. They told me…”

She noticed Wynne giving her an odd look, then shook her head. “Never mind. Let’s just count our blessings and keep going. We still have to find First Enchanter Irving.”

She looked sadly down at Niall’s body, the man she could not save, no matter how she’d tried, no matter how much he’d helped her… and gently pulled the scroll of paper from his fingertips, holding it close to her heart.

“We can’t waste any more time.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The drakelings were a surprise, but not as much as the Templar.

He was crouched behind a magical barrier, pressing his hands to his head as if praying. Esfera ran to him, her fingers pressed against the wall of magic.

“There’s still someone alive!” she shouted to Wynne. “Are you… alright?”

The Templar looked up at her with wild eyes, falling back on his hands and shuffling away from her. “This trick again? I know what you are. It won’t work! I will stay strong!”

Esfera blinked, looking around at the barrier for weaknesses, but there didn’t seem to be any. What she _did_ see, what she hadn’t initially seen because she had been so relieved at seeing someone still alive this far into the tower… were the bodies.

Some of them still wore Templar armor. Some, mage’s robes. But all were twisted, emaciated, wretched horrors. The sight of them brought bile to her throat.

She turned back to the Templar, who had returned to his prayer position. She crouched down to his eye level, trying to smile encouragingly. “You must have been through so much… but we are here to help. To save you.”

“Ugh, enough visions! If anything in you is human, kill me now! Stop this game!”

“NO!” Esfera shouted, loudly enough that he stumbled backwards, his delirium momentarily broken. “There’s been enough death in this cursed place. You _have_ to live. Please.”

“You… no, the visions of kindness are the worst torture. You broke the others, you won’t break me! Going deep into my thoughts, tormenting me with what I want most…” he got to his feet, his expression resolute. “Silence! I’ll not listen to anything you say, now begone!”

Esfera crossed her arms, turning to Wynne.

The mage shook her head sadly. “The poor child has been through a great deal. Torture, it seems. But this cage… I have never seen anything like it.”

Esfera turned back to the Templar. “I am still here.”

He stared at her over his prayer-folded hands. “You… you are! But that’s always worked before!”

“I am _not_ a vision. If I were a vision, wouldn’t they have sent someone you _knew?_ But you and I have never met, have we?”

“I… you’re right. But then who are you? How are you here?!”

“I am Esfera, a Grey Warden. I am… here to help.”

“Then _kill_ the mages. Especially Uldred. They caged us like animals, thinking of new ways to break us.” He closed his eyes, grimacing at the memory. “I’m the only one left.” He sank to his knees again, pain wracking his expression. “They turned some into monsters and… there’s nothing I could _do_.”

“I…” Esfera looked back at Wynne, whose grieving, helpless face mirrored her own. “I am here to save as many lives as possible, ser…”

“Cullen. Not that it matters. I’m dead anyway. As we all should be.”

“Well, Cullen, I’m going to save you whether you want me to or not.”

“Yes, that’s kind of her thing,” Alistair piped up. “Probably don’t want to get in the way of that.”

She got to her feet, digging through her pack for food, then remembering the barrier. Frustrated, she kicked it, only succeeding in bruising her own toes. “AGH! Where are Irving and the other mages?”

“They’re in the Harrowing chamber. But the _sounds_ coming from out of there, oh, Maker! You have to end it now, before it’s too late! Mages… their monstrous power… and to think, I once thought we were too _hard_ on them! I see now I was foolish.”

Esfera grit her teeth, reminding herself that a life was a life. “You are delirious, and your hatred of mages is… a discussion for another day. But I will not kill people just because of what they _could_ do.”

“PLEASE! Think of Ferelden! If you won’t help, then just kill me now!”

She spun back to Cullen, slamming her fist against the barrier. “NO! You sit down and listen to me, Templar. Don’t you dare give up on your life, or even think you have the right to choose who _deserves_ to live or die! You have suffered a great deal, and you have _lived_. Is that not a sign that you were _meant_ to live? That you have good things to offer the world? That someone, somewhere out there, is waiting for _you?_ Every single life is connected to others. _Your_ life is connected to others, others who will grieve when you are lost. You have… have parents, siblings, friends… all who will mourn when they hear you are gone. Who will feel as if their world has crashed down upon them and nothing will ever be the same. If I can spare just _one_ person that grief, I will do it. For you, _and_ for the mages in this tower.”

She took a deep breath, her throat stinging. “Your future will not always be filled with hatred, Cullen. Not if I can help it.”

She spun on her heel, ignoring his cries to kill the mages, for the good of Ferelden, that the Tower was lost… and shoved open the doors to the Harrowing chamber.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

With Uldred dead, Kinloch Hold was finally settling down.

Niall’s Litany of Andralla had saved many mages from succumbing to Uldred’s control, and as they passed his body as they followed First Enchanter Irving back through the halls they had carved their way through, she laid the scroll gently back down upon it.

She’d rejoined Cookie, who had jumped into her arms excitedly and allowed her to hold him up as he licked her face, much to the amusement of the mage children.

And then Irving had convinced Greagoir to open the sealed door, and mages, children, and the one single Templar they’d been able to save spilled out into the late evening air.

After Cullen had received some medical attention, Irving had promised the aid of the mages as soon as they could recover from the events of the tower, and Esfera had taken some welcome gasps of fresh air, they could finally rest.

And not in a sloth-demon way, either.

Actually, after her encounter with the sloth demon, sleeping was the _last_ thing she wanted to do. Instead, she joined Wynne in the library, helping to reshelve the fallen books.

“I’m looking for something, actually,” she admitted.

“Your friend, Kinsey?”

“No… well, I was looking for her, too.” Sliding a book called _Elvron’s Grande Bestiary_ back onto the shelf, she glanced over her shoulder at Wynne. “Have you ever heard of an Arcane Warrior?”

Wynne frowned, waving her hands to freeze a growing puddle of blood and then picking up the resulting chunk of ice. “No… not that I know of. What is it?”

Esfera explained what the Presence in the Life Gem had taught her, back in the ruins of the Brecilian Forest. Mages in glittering armor, who turned their magic inwards rather than outwards.

“Could you really do that?”

Wynne laughed, depositing the chunk of ice into a wheelbarrow they had brought up from the village just for the purpose of clean-up. “ _Me_ ? Certainly not. These old bones would certainly break under the strain. But… I suppose it _is_ possible.” She frowned, leaning against a bookshelf and suddenly looking distant.

“Wynne?”

“I… may have met _one_ person like that. A young woman, just after Ostagar. She’d been injured in the battle, but as I tended to her wound, I noticed that, despite all of the darkspawn ichor splattered over her person, not a single drop had entered her wound, as if there was an invisible barrier there, keeping it from entering. At the time I’d just thought she must be incredibly lucky. But if it is truly possible to turn magic inwards… I do wonder.”


	8. Therilli Lavellan- Elven Stranger

All of the chaos and death in Ferelden, and Wycome was just as drunk and loud as it always was, Therilli thought as she followed the group of Hunters deeper into the mountains. It was the middle of the day and she could still hear the humans partying.

Many Dalish would consider Clan Lavellan’s proximity to the human city foolishly dangerous, but actually, it was the safest place to be in the Free Marches. Unlike in the south, where coming too close to settlements meant that the Dalish would be found and caught by the nearby Templars, the loose alliance between city-states in the Free Marches meant that any attempt to raid the Dalish living close enough to a city could easily be interpreted as an act of aggression against a neighbor, and no one wanted to risk such a thing while the world was so unstable. 

So yes, she could still hear the revelry of Wycome behind her as she wandered over the cliffs by the riverside, following a set of boar tracks. She wasn’t hunting-- just checking to make sure the boars were going the _opposite_ direction from her fellow clan members.

“Therilli!”

A pair of Hunters were running up the hill toward her, eyes wide in excitement. One almost slipped on a loose boulder and tumbled over the cliff, but the other was quick enough to grab him by the arm and haul him back to his feet before that could happen.

“Woah, careful!” Therilli warned, putting a hand on either of their shoulders to ensure they had their balance back while they gasped for breath. “What happened?”

“There are ruins in the cliffs!”

Therilli raised an eyebrow, suddenly annoyed. “You chased away our hunt with your scrambling for _ruins?_ Of course there are ruins here. We’ve found them all already.”

“No, _new_ ones! Well, not new, but nothing the Keeper has spoken of. They were hidden behind… some kind of hidden magical door in the stone. I put my hand there to hold myself up while I removed a rock from my boot and… it opened! You must come see!”

“Alright, alright, calm down.” Therilli sighed, looking out over the cliffs, checking the skyline for the time. The sun was not low in the sky, but depending on how long this took, they may be out after nightfall. “I’m coming.”

The two Hunters were actually older than she was by a few years, but the Keeper had insisted that, upon discovery of magical artifacts, they were always to stay in contact with each other. That way no one would be lost in ruins without anyone noticing.

She followed them down the riverside, to a cluster of boulders cut into the cliff so close to the edge of the Minanter River that water still sloshed against her boots while she approached the entrance.

“It’s… a very small door,” she noted, reaching into her pack to retrieve some torch-makings. “You didn’t go inside, did you?”

“No, not yet. But there’s something down there. Can’t you feel it?”

Yes, she could feel it. Like a gasp of breath into a pair of lungs, the air from just over the river seemed to swirl past her and into the cave’s deep, black depths, and then was released in a quick exhale of air that was somehow much warmer than it should have been, coming from the underground of a riverside.

Therilli clicked the flint arrowhead she wore as a necklace against the blade of her sword and lit her torch with the sparks, lifting the now flickering flame toward the narrow entrance. “There’s certainly something down there.”

“Then let’s go! Aelwyth’s party is hunting today, too, so the clan will be much happier if we bring home a piece of history than a piece of meat,” her companion argued, already stepping forward.

“Wait,” Therilli insisted, stopping him with the flat of her blade. “You two should go back to camp and tell the Keeper.”

“What? _Why?_ ”

“Because the entrance to this place was _magical_ , and that means we may need the Keeper or her First. And also because it looks like a tight fit in there, which means your hunting bows are going to be useless, should you encounter any resistance. If anyone’s going in, it should be me.”

They sized her up, seeming annoyed at her disrespect of seniority, then nodded. “You make a good point. Don’t get killed in there, Therilli.”

She shrugged. “I’ll try not to.”

She heard their footsteps recede, and she sheathed her sword and sighed, plunging into the depths with her torch in hand.

She did not have to get far to confirm that these were, indeed, ruins, and not simply a smuggler’s cave. The river-worn cave walls quickly gave way to brick and mortar, then to carvings and statues.

She lifted her torch above her head to look at a series of mosaics more closely, recognizing them as the Protectors, each mosaic preceded by a small altar.

She found the one dedicated to Mythal, depicting a figure who was both woman and draconic, wings spread wide in welcome. She paused, setting down her torch and lowering her head before the altar, whispering a quick prayer before the goddess for protection. That done, she continued forward, ignoring the feeling of the statues and mosaics watching her.

As she passed through the gods’ chamber, the path narrowed again, just barely wide enough to accommodate herself and her shield.

She was getting deep enough that the rush of the river behind her was beginning to fade out of her hearing, and the growing silence was raising the hairs at the back of her neck.

She found a couple of sconces and lifted her torch to them, feeling a bit relieved when they actually lit. It was good to have light sources that she didn’t have to hold herself.

And good timing, really, because before her she could hear gurgling noises, the clattering of bones, and groaned.

“Ugh, sometimes I wish our ancestors had just burned their dead like the humans do,” she grumbled, dropping her torch into the dust and removing her shield from her back just in time to block the rusted iron sword of a skeletal soldier.

She lifted against it, twisting her body underneath the shield and sending the skeleton flying against the wall with a kick, dodging another, more fleshy form as it reached for her, slicing at it with her sword. The other skeleton tried to rise, but she swung her shield against it again, bones cracking and splintering as they rattled between the metal of her shield and the stone of the wall.

She shoved her sword through the fleshy one’s eyeball, glad for her scale armor as its sword grated against her breastplate, but slid uselessly away. It fell under her sword, but she stabbed it a couple of extra times just to be sure.

But the act of fighting had forced her further away from the cone of light produced by the sconces she had lit, and her eyes weren’t quite used to the darkness. She heard more footsteps in the dark, lifting her sword to right about the thing’s neck level, based on the sounds.

“Wait!”

She blinked, stepping backward into the light of the torches, the being whose neck was now pressed against the edge of her sword stepping into it with her. The light flickered orange onto a set of shoes, then legs, then a pale face and black hair, strange facial tattoos seeming to move across her face in the firelight.

“I’m Dalish!” the woman cried, her hands up in surrender.

“You’re not from Clan Lavellan,” Therilli noted, her sword still at the other elf’s throat.

“Oh dear… Lavellan? Have I really come that far from Kirkwall? I suppose I have, haven’t I?”

Lowering her sword just a bit, but not sheathing it, Therilli narrowed her eyes at the elf, taking her in. She was… birdlike, even more than humans seemed to describe elves as. Thin, wiry, her face pinched with anxiety. “Who are you, then? We only just discovered these ruins _today_ … how could you possibly have gotten here before I did?”

“Oh, I’m the one who opened the door. I’m Merrill, of the Sabrae Clan.”

Hearing that name stung. “Why are the Sabrae this far east?”

“Oh, they’re not,” Merrill answered, still looking nervously at Therilli’s sword. “They’re still camped on the side of Sundermount. I’m by myself, just… exploring.”

“But you’re a mage, aren’t you? Why would your Keeper allow you so far from the clan?”

“She… well, I’m trying to restore a magical artifact. It was… broken. I went everywhere looking for ruins that might hold pieces of it. I suppose I _did_ wander a bit too far…”

Therilli sighed, finally sheathing her sword. “You’re a _long_ way from Sundermount, Merrill. You’re only a few miles out of Wycome.”

“Oh dear! But I’m not leaving until I finish searching this place.” She crossed her arms stubbornly, staring at Therilli. “But how rude am I! Making demands and you haven’t even told me _your_ name!”

“Therilli,” she replied, scooping her extinguished torch off of the ground and holding it up to one of the sconces to re-light it. “I definitely don’t have the authority to tell you that you _can’t_ explore this place, but… we’d better stick close together. I get the feeling the people who made this place didn’t just leave corpses to protect their treasure.”

They plunged deeper into the ruins, lighting a torch anytime they found one to establish the chambers they’d checked already versus the ones they didn’t. Merrill was chatty, constantly talking about her clan, how her accent was different from Therilli’s, why Therilli sounded so different… clearly a nervous habit, which is why Therilli didn’t let it bother her, but still, they were probably attracting half of the undead in the ruin just by the sound of Merrill’s voice. 

“Really, you sound just like a human! It’s so odd. Not a bad thing, mind you, I just… why is that?”

“My clan lives a lot closer to human cities than most,” Therilli answered flatly, lifting a pair of bracers out of a dusty chest and frowning at them. “So we lose a bit of our Dalish-ness in the process. And I’ve spent a lot of time in Wycome.”

“Oh… I see. So you’re-- oh no!”

She tripped over a loose floor tile, half-falling into the room, had Therilli not caught her. “Please try to be more careful.”

“I’m sorry… just a bit nervous, is all. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve had anyone to talk to. I guess I just got a bit excited.” She gathered herself, her cheeks pink. “You winced when I introduced myself. Is something wrong?”

Therilli’s mouth suddenly felt like ash. “No… I just… I’ve met one of the Sabrae before. Over a year ago, now.” She lit another torch, continuing through the ruins. “His name was Nerion. Did you know him?”

“Oh, of course! He was one of our best Hunters!” Merrill’s voice was cheery, but quickly turned sad. “But… that was before the Blight. He died in Denerim, I heard. The Keeper sent him to spread the word of gathering forces to aid the Grey Wardens and then… he never came back. Our clan keeps losing people to tragedy.”

There was something else in Merrill’s voice, but Therilli decided not to press the issue. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said instead.

“And I, yours.”

They found themselves in a huge, open chamber, one that echoed with sound. Water dripped from the ceiling into crystal-clear pools, each overseen by a statue of a different god.

“I wonder what this place was for?” Therilli wondered aloud, lifting her torch to see more of the room.

“I think it was some kind of rite of passage,” Merrill replied, staring into one of the pools. “A place of testing, courage. Most of it’s empty now, with the fall of Arlathan, but… there are remnants.”

She stepped backwards, right onto a tile that glinted in the light. It glowed, a deep green utterly at odds with the orange of Therilli’s firelight, and through the cavern, Therilli could see flashes of light as… _things_ emerged from the pools, the walls, the statues. Demons.

“Oh great.”

“Yes… I suppose this is part of the test, too?”

“Or just a defense in place. You get the rage demons; I’ll keep the shades at bay!”

“But I don’t know any ice spells!”

Therilli blocked a blast of fire from one of the demons with her shield, sliding her sword out of its sheath. “WHAT?!”

“I’ve been studying fire, mostly! I’m sorry!”

“Ugh, fine, _you_ get the shades, _I’ll_ get the rage demons!”

Though, when she stuck her sword in one, pulled it out, and found only that the blade had been completely melted away, she redacted. “Never mind! Keep the original plan. Just use anything besides fire!”

“O-oh, alright!”

She concentrated, her staff spinning in her hands as she muttered, while Therilli tried to hold back a barrage of blows with just her shield. She was _really_ starting to wish she’d broken down and purchased that expensive silverite blade last time she was in Wycome. Its heat resistance would have come in handy just then.

“Hurry up and do so--”

Her words were cut off when something grabbed her by the ankle and swung her into the air, so that she was hanging upside down, her hair brushing against the floor as she stared into the shadow-formed teeth of a shade’s mouth.

She tried to kick it with her non-grabbed leg, but managed to miss, instead getting her hair caught in one of the wingpoints of the statue of Mythal the demon was dangling her over.

“Mythal e’nast,” she grumbled, trying to yank her braid free while also dodging the thing’s teeth and claws. “Any time now, Merrill!”

She heard a scream and twisted around to see Merrill surrounded, three rage demons surging around her, trying to break through the flickering barrier of magic she’d erected around herself.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Therilli shouted, grabbing onto the statue of Mythal’s horn, giving her enough leverage to kick the shade’s hand off of her ankle. This meant that she was now tumbling toward the earth, still holding onto the statue, but hey, it was better than dangling upside down.

Probably.

The statue’s head couldn’t handle the sudden weight and momentum of her fall, cracking off as she plunged directly into the pool of water. It was probably desecration, but she sincerely hoped Mythal would forgive her for a little accident.

She swam to the surface, the broken horn still in her hand, ducking out of her friendly-neighborhood-shade’s grip and grabbing her shield from where she’d dropped it as she fell. She ran at the rage demons still beating against Merrill’s barrier, plunging the broken horn into one of their backs.

It screamed, an ear-splitting sound, reaching uselessly for the chunk of stone buried in its back, its ember-like eyes now on Therilli, a fury like none she’d seen before.

And then it burst into sparks.

Of course, there were still half a dozen _other_ demons to deal with, but Therilli mentally made a note of the prayers she owed Mythal after this was all over.

But thankfully, her momentary distraction of the rage demons was just enough for Merrill to finish a spell, striking outwards with her staff as roots erupted from the ground, lashing at the demons’ forms, ripping up the ground underneath them as they did so. A few of them grabbed onto the shades that were about to dig into Therilli’s backside, ripping into their now-shrieking, shadowy bodies.

Therilli smashed one of the rage demons away from Merrill with her shield, then waved it quickly. “Ow, hot!” The surface of it was already starting to melt from the heat. If she couldn’t get rid of these rage demons fast enough, she was going to end up defenseless.

She reached into her belt and pulled out her hunting knife, knowing it was useless against the rage demons, but she had a different idea.

Spinning around to face one of the shades, she ducked one of its blows and grabbed onto its arm, using the same momentum to swing herself upwards, onto its insectoid back. She plunged her dagger into its back, knowing that wouldn’t kill it, but it was enough to distract it enough for her to push it forward, right into one of the rage demons.

The heat was intense, and Therilli managed to jump off just in time for the shade to burst into black smoke, but she was mostly proud that it had worked. _And_ the rage demon was distracted enough that Merrill was able to send another blast of stone outwards, plunging into the rage demon and sending it flying back, right into the pool of water guarded by a statue of Elgar’nan. It screeched as it plunged into the water, clambering for the edge of the pool, but even as it did, its form was dissipating, until all that was left of it were the echoes of its screams around the huge chamber.

With only one rage demon left, Therilli grabbed her fallen hunting knife from the dust-pile where the shade had been and rammed into the last rage demon, dumping it, melted shield and all, into another of the pools of water. It too disappeared, and only the shades were left.

These were a bit easier to deal with. Or, at least they would be if she weren’t suddenly without both a sword or a shield.

She clanked her bracers together, doing her best to get the demons’ attention as she took off through the room, searching for something, _anything_ to use as a weapon. The idea was to get them to chase _her_ so that Merrill had the chance to use her magic, and unfortunately, it worked.

She felt another blast of heat and feared that another rage demon had risen, but thankfully, rather than a demon, what she turned to see was Merrill, fire swirling around her, eyes glowing with magic.

“Fire magic, remember?” she shouted, sending another fireball flying into one of the shades, blasting it into a column of smoke.

“Nice!” was all she could get out before another shade tried to kill her, trying to spear her with its fingers, but she ducked behind the statue of Andruil and let it take the blow, once again apologizing to the gods for her behavior.

“AHA!” she shouted, spotting a sword at the bottom of the pool and immediately hopping off of the statue’s pedestal into the water, swimming as fast as she could toward the bottom, which was, annoyingly, _much_ deeper than it had looked from the surface. She was almost out of air by the time her fingers closed around the hilt, kicking toward the surface, her vision beginning to get spotty by the time she finally emerged into the air, sucking in deep lungfuls.

The shade tried to grab her again, but she rolled through the water, grabbing onto Andruil’s bow to haul herself out, drenched armor, sword, and all.

Another fireball from Merrill grabbed the thing’s attention long enough for Therilli to jab it with her new sword once, twice, three times, four times…

“Okay, I think it’s dead,” Merrill announced, suddenly at Therilli’s side.

Therilli focused her still-hazy vision on the place the shade had been, then blinked the last of the spots away and exhaled. “Oh, by the gods, it’s finally over.”

“That was incredible! Where did you learn to fight like that?!” Merrill squeaked, her eyes as wide as an owl's.

“Bears,” Therilli grumbled, trying to determine whether her new sword would fit into the old one’s sheath.

“What?”

“Nevermind.”

Still sopping wet, she turned her attention to the huge altar at the end of the room, stumbling over to it. It felt unusually warm there, which was good, because the water in those pools was _freezing_. No wonder the rage demons had died instantly upon falling in.

“Well, here we are. The main sanctum of the ruins.”

She peered down at the altar’s contents, running her fingers over empty pitchers, carvings in Elvhen… and then finally came to rest on a small stone bowl in the very center of the table, the inside of it encrusted with shards of glass. From it, she could feel the tingle of magic, so much of it that her hand nearly went numb upon nearing it.

She pulled her hand back, gesturing Merrill toward it. “That what you’re looking for?”

Merrill instantly scooped the bowl up, apparently unfazed by the magic. “This… this could be the key to the eluvian!”

“The… what?”

“The mirror, the… oh, nevermind.”

But Therilli noted that blood was leaking from Merrill’s palms, dripping onto the bowl’s surface. “When did that happen?”

“Oh, this?” Merrill replied, lifting her hand to the light provided by the glow of the bowl. “It’s… it’s nothing.”

“That’s a _knife_ wound, isn’t it? Did you… did you do _blood magic?!”_

“Yes, alright?! We were overwhelmed, and-and you were yelling at me, and I had to do _something_.”

Therilli glared at her. “But this isn’t the first time you’ve done it.”

Merrill deliberately avoided looking at her, staring into the bowl instead. “Yes. It was the only way to restore the eluvian. I still have a lot to learn, but… I think this artifact could help. See? It’s responding to my blood.”

She was right. As her blood dripped against the glass on the inside of the bowl, the warmth around them intensified and the glow shifted colors, refracting orange, blue, green, pink light all around the cavern. And as it did, the cut in Merrill’s hand began to seal.

“Well, if that’s the case, you can _have_ it,” Therilli scoffed, leaning, exhausted, against the altar.

Merrill finally looked away from the bowl, surprised. “This _is_ on your clan’s current hunting grounds. You don’t want to claim it? Such an important piece of history…”

Therilli shrugged. “History does not belong to one clan, but to all of the People,” she recited, glancing at Merrill out of the corner of her eye. “If you were a shem, I’d think twice about giving it to you. But as long as it’s going to a Dalish, I don’t care.” She straightened, already heading back to the entrance. “And if it takes _blood magic_ to restore our past, maybe it’s better off lost.”

“What?! You can’t be serious! Our history is what makes us Elvhen! It’s our whole purpose as Dalish!”

“You can’t recover _any_ history if you’re dead, Merrill. Our purpose is to _survive_. Gathering history is secondary.”

Slowly, Merrill nodded, tucking the bowl into her pack. “We should go. You must want to report this to your Keeper.”

“Oh, she’ll be furious, but that’s my own problem.”

Laughing, Merrill followed her back through the hall of statues. “Oh, does your Keeper do that thing, too? With the _stare_ and the disappointed frown…”

“Huh… I wonder if that’s a secret technique they teach you when you become Keeper. My Grandmother had it, too.”

“Oh, your grandmother was a Keeper?”

“Don’t get too excited-- I have _no magical potential whatsoever._ ”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When finally they emerged from the cave, the stars were glowing brightly overhead, and the group of Clan Lavellan waiting for them at the entrance was near hysterics. The Keeper’s First nearly choked her with a hug, but the other Hunters merely marveled at her new sword, which she described quite honestly as “a gift from Andruil.” They didn’t know what that meant, but she was sure they’d figure it out once they sent a real search party in.

With all of the chaos and worrying, Merrill _almost_ managed to sneak away before Therilli could say goodbye, but she still managed to catch her before she could run off into the foothills.

“You’re really just going to take the artifact and run, huh?”

“Oh, I… well, I didn’t really feel welcome. Since you were so upset at my showing up and all…”

“Oh, shut up, Merrill. We could have died down there. I _would_ have died if you weren’t there. You _do_ realize that’s why I’m letting you take it, right?”

“I…” she relaxed a bit. “I can’t… _possibly_ express how grateful I am. You’ve done so much for me with nothing at all in return… it just doesn’t seem fair.”

“I’m used to it,” Therilli shrugged, then crossed her arms, frowning at Merrill. “You can’t keep doing stuff like this, Merrill. The risks, the blood magic… you could put your whole clan in danger. If it were Clan Lavellan, I wouldn’t allow it.”

“It’s… important to me, Therilli.”

“I realize that. That’s why I haven’t stopped you myself. I just want you to think critically about it. Think of it as… friendly advice.”

Merrill smiled weakly, then pointed to Therilli’s braid. “Some friendly advice of my own… your hair’s a disaster.”

Therilli looked down at the half-sawed-through chunk of her braid and cursed, lifting it to the moonlight with a grimace. “Agh, it must’ve happened when I got caught on that stupid statue-- forgive me, Mythal-- didn’t even notice.” Sighing, she pulled her hunting knife out of its sheath and lifted it to her braid.

“You’re just going to cut it off?! But your hair is so… so _long_ and pretty…”

Therilli drew the knife through her hair, feeling the braid tumble loose around her shoulders as the chunk in her hands came free the rest of the way. She held it out to Merrill, grinning. “It’s just _hair_ , Merrill. I’m still me without it.”

“I… actually, it suits you.”

“Well… thank you.”

She tossed the braid over her shoulder and lifted her hand toward Merrill. “I wish you luck, Merrill of Clan Sabrae. And next time you wander into somewhere incredibly dangerous, I hope you don’t do so alone. You may not have a beautiful elven stranger there to save you.”

Merrill laughed, matching Therilli’s parting gesture. “I hope your wish is granted. _Dareth shiral,_ beautiful elven stranger.”

“ _Dareth shiral,”_ Therilli replied.

Merrill turned, disappearing around the riverbend just as more of the Hunters from Therilli’s clan came to ask her questions, and the First came to fuss over her, insisting that she dry off before she caught cold.

Therilli had a feeling that she may never see Merrill again.


	9. Naiyah Hawke- Collecting

Hawke had to keep looking down at her shirt to make sure her breasts weren’t falling out or something. Not that they had any _reason_ to be-- she kept her clothes properly secured-- it was just that without her armor she _felt_ like there was nothing holding her body parts in the proper place.The foul, fish-guts-and-human-excrement-scented breeze of Kirkwall seemed to blow right through the fabric to her skin. She wasn’t _cold_ , just a bit… light.

But hey, most of the population of Kirkwall walked around without a full suit of armor on and _they_ hadn’t died yet, so… she was probably fine. True, a lot of people _did_ die in Kirkwall every day, but that tended to be from disease or starvation _much_ more often than getting stabbed.

Gamlen’s house-- she still refused to call it ‘home’-- wasn’t really all that far from Athenril’s hideout, so really, the chance that she was going to get jumped by bandits within the half-mile’s walk from the one place to the other was quite slim.

But not zero, apparently.

“Get her!”

She managed to step out of the way before the first arrow could shoot her in the ankle, dropping into a roll to dodge the four others that sank deep into the mud-brick walls behind her. She grabbed her axe from its makeshift sheath on her back as she got to her feet, parrying one attacker, grabbing the other by the front collar of his armor and throwing him out of the way as hard as he could. She heard a crash, but didn’t have time to look, because she still had archers to deal with.

“Really, this isn’t worth the trouble,” she insisted, twisting the flat of her axe blade toward them to block another volley of arrows. “I’m not that wealthy.”

“Oh, don’t gimme that; you’re Athenril’s best girl, ain’t ya?! If anyone in Lowtown’s got coin, it’s you!”

Hawke swung her axe upwards, managing to catch the one who had spoken in its arc, cutting a gash through his groin and into his chest. Dropping to catch the blood from the wound, he was completely vulnerable when she swung the axe again, burying it deep into his chest. For a moment he stood there, stunned, staring at her with blood leaking out both ends, embedded on the edge of her axe. But she couldn’t pay much attention to his dying face because an arrow plunged into the meat of her thigh, almost taking her down from the pain.

When she got in a battle-fever like this, though, she could usually ignore pain pretty easily. Her blood was pumping faster, her limbs moving smoothly, enough so that she could pretty easily haul back and launch the greataxe at her attackers, impaled dead body and all.

Attempting to scatter out of the way from the flying weapon, at least one of the archers may have been able to avoid it had the attached body not come flying off mid-air and came crashing down separately, right where the bandit archer had tried to dodge to. All three archers went down immediately, one even hit by the axe blade and bleeding out nicely.

Hawke huffed, blowing her bangs out of her eyes. “This could all have been avoided if you’d just left well enough alone, but--”

She heard the swordswoman jump down from a roof long before she saw her, instinctually bringing her arm up over her head so that her bracers would take the blow instead of her skull.

The sword, given weight by the momentum of the fall from above, collided hard with her lifted arm at right about the same moment she remembered that she didn’t _have_ bracers. Ah well, better to lose her arm than her life, right?

The swordswoman looked just as surprised as Hawke felt when she reached the ground and the blade hadn’t sliced completely through her forearm. But hey-- they _were_ in Lowtown. Probably not the most high-quality equipment. It still _hurt_ , though! And not a little!

Taking advantage of the woman’s surprise to sweep her legs out from under her, Hawke then lunged for her axe, which was much _further_ away than she’d thought she’d thrown it, considering the body it had been carrying and the bodies it had collided with. 

She finally managed to grab it, allowing the archers underneath to stare at her wide-eyed for a moment, then scramble away in panic. Once she had it well enough in her grasp, she whipped around to the swordswoman, her axe at the ready.

But suddenly the woman wasn’t interested in fighting her. She was only staring down at the perfect u-bend in the blade, mouth agape. Finally she looked up and dropped the sword, letting it clang to the ground while she lifted her hands above her head. “W-what… what _are_ you, Hawke?!”

“The Maker’s dancing monkey,” Hawke replied, reaching down and snapping the feathering off of the arrow in her thigh. “Now get out of here. Leave me and my family alone.”

“You’re… not gonna kill me?”

“Nah.” Hawke leaned against the shaft of her greataxe and examined the large cut in her sleeve, feeling for breaks in her flesh. “This may surprise you, but I don’t actually kill people for fun. _You_ attacked _me_. Just let your Coterie pals know I’m not with Athenril anymore, alright? It’s just Hawke from now on.”

The woman nodded so quickly Hawke wondered if her head was going to fly off, then raced away after her comrades.

Once she was gone, Hawke walked over to the ruined sword and investigated the bend, matching it to the exact place on her arm that a bruise was now forming. _Now that is weird,_ she wondered to herself, lighty running a fingertip over the edge of the blade and staring, fascinated, at the perfect little drop of blood that formed from her skin as a result.

But she still had to get back to Gamlen’s house, or Mother and Bethany would worry. Couldn’t have that, could she?

She looted the corpses as well as she could, disappointed that none of their armor appeared to be in her size, then lifted her axe back into the makeshift sheath on her back. As she started to leave, though, she felt a bit of a tickle in her throat, so lifted her elbow to her mouth so that she could cough it out. It was surprisingly wet, and when she looked down at her sleeve, she saw a fresh blotch of crimson still spreading outwards through the white cloth.

Wiping her lips, she stared down at the blood now on her fingers. But that was odd, because she didn’t _feel_ particularly sick.

She shook her head, wiping her fingers on her shirt and continuing on her way. She was going to have to get new clothes and armor anyway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At this point, she had walked into Gamlen’s house with injuries so many times that her mother and uncle didn’t even pause in their argument to comment on the blood on her shirt or the arrow in her thigh.

“My children have been in servitude-- _servitude_ \-- for a year! They should be nobility!”

Naiyah rolled her eyes and kicked off her boots, moving over to her “desk” and perching her butt on the edge of her chair so she could get a good look at the arrow. It seemed a clean pierce, so she merely shrugged and yanked it out, wincing as the wound began to spurt blood.

“Why _was_ nothing set aside for us, Uncle?” she asked, tearing the rest of her sleeve off of her arm and tying it around the wound.

“Oh, Naiyah, you’re back. And injured, I see.”

“Oh I’m just peachy. First I get kicked around by Templars, then jumped by a bunch of Coterie bandits. But don’t everybody jump up at once-- I’m fine.”

Rolling her eyes, Bethany strolled over and set her hand to the wound. “They’ve been at this all day, since I came back. What happened to your armor?”

“Gave it back to Athenril,” Naiyah answered, controlling the urge to itch the wound as Bethany’s magic knit it back together. She turned to her mother, leaning into her chair now that there wasn’t an arrow in the way. “We’re not in servitude anymore, Mother. Our contract is up.”

Gamlen, though, didn’t look relieved. He only crossed his arms and scowled down at her. “And _now_ you’re unemployed and unarmored. I suppose we’ll have to start begging on the streets, won’t we?”

“Gamlen!” Leandra argued, scandalized.

Naiyah rolled her eyes again, swinging her legs around the seat so that she was facing him, Bethany leaning against the back of the chair behind her. “Oh don’t give me that look, Uncle. I’ll get another job and some new armor. I’m still a perfectly healthy young woman. There’ll always be someone willing to hire me.” She stretched her leg, relieved at the closed wound. “And you still haven’t answered the question.”

“Your _mother_ was supposed to marry the Comte de Launcet, and instead she ran off with some Ferelden apostate. You don’t get to stay the favorite when you do that.”

His voice was sharp as icicles as he glared at his sister, much more envy than satisfaction, but glittering with both. For a brief moment, Naiyah thought of Carver, his permanent scowl as he followed Naiyah around with her handed-down sword.

“Where is Father’s will?” Leandra insisted, “If I could just see for myself--”

“It’s not _here_ alright?! It was read, it went in the vault. No one needed to look at it again.”

“Because that’s not suspicious at all,” Naiyah commented, poking at the bruise on her arm, ignoring Bethany’s worried expression.

“I don’t care. Even if you wanted to see the bloody thing, it’s still locked up on the estate. And that’s long been out of my hands.”

He grumbled to himself and stomped off toward one of the bedrooms and closed the door, leaving Naiyah, Bethany, their dog, and their mother alone in the main room.

Leandra, finally free of her argument with Gamlen, suddenly seemed to realize that Naiyah was home and began bustling around her, checking her “bandage” and giving her some mystery-meat stew and commanding that she remove her shirt so she could get it washed.

While their mother hurried around, Bethany and Naiyah exchanged glances, both suddenly looking and feeling exhausted. “So… you look into the family estate and I’ll go searching for new jobs?” suggested Naiyah.

“Sounds like a plan,” Bethany agreed. “But what happened to you? Did… Athenril do that to you?”

“What, this?” Naiyah lifted her arm toward the candlelight, investigating the reddish-black of the bruise. “No, Athenril seemed to realize that if she tried to stop me she’d lose too much in the process. _This_ actually was the _strangest_ thing--”

She paused, then shook her head. “Nevermind. I’m tired, and tomorrow’s going to be a busy day.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Getting a job was not nearly as easy as she had made it out to be in front of her uncle, Hawke had to admit. With her bruises covered by a clean shirt, she was more healthy-looking than most in Kirkwall, but anti-Ferelden sentiment was still high in the city although the Blight had just recently ended. Anyone hiring permanently and legally would call her nasty things and then turn their backs, and just about all of the contacts she had made over the past year were suddenly afraid of angering Athenril by doing business with her.

It was heading toward nighttime already and she still hadn’t made any coin, so there was no way she was going to be able to afford a new set of armor, even from the Lowtown merchants. But at this point _any_ armor was better than none, so she made her way through Lowtown toward Lirene’s Ferelden Imports, pushing past the crowds of emaciated beggars to get to the counter.

Lirene raised an eyebrow as she approached, scanning her clothes. “Finally come to plead for aid like everyone else, have you, Hawke?” she asked, handing a ragged blanket to an old man missing the teeth in the right half of his jaw.

“Not quite,” Hawke replied, leaning on the counter and trying not to listen to the crying, weeping, pleading all around her. “Do you still have the set of armor I sold you a year ago?”

“Yes. No one here could afford it, even at _our_ prices, and no one in Kirkwall’s gonna stoop to buying Ferelden military plate. You want it back, then?”

“How much?” Hawke dug through her coin purse as Lirene went into the storage room behind her and retrieved a stack of armor pieces from inside a dismal wooden chest.

“Thirty silver. And before you complain about only getting twenty for it in the first place, you know I’ve got mouths to feed.”

Hawke glanced around at her gathered countrymen, feeling their pleading eyes on her back. “I know you do,” she replied, slapping the one singular gold coin she had onto the counter and grabbing the stack of armor. “Take the rest; buy everyone some food.”

“You’re donating _all_ of this?! Most Fereldens are lucky to _see_ this much money in Kirkwall, Hawke-- you’re just going to--?”

“Sure am!” she replied, already strapping the bracers onto her arms. “Not to worry, most of it’s stolen, anyway.”

From her elbow, a young woman, tears in her eyes, whispered scornfully, “Are you really just going to announce that to the whole world?”

“Sure,” Naiyah shrugged. “The guard hasn’t managed to arrest me yet; I don’t think they’re going to.” She slid the dented Ferelden plate over her clothes and reached for the buckles to secure it. “And if I got the money through crime, I’d really rather it went toward something useful.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Speaking of the city guard, Aveline worked with them now, didn’t she? Might be a good last resort for another job if she couldn’t find any better options. Not an official position, of course. Just as a… sword for hire. Perhaps she should put an advertisement on Gamlen’s front door advertising her services. Ah, but that would probably get her labeled as a prostitute… probably not that.

She could still feel the hole in the chainmail between the front and back plates of her armor where the darkspawn had managed to jab her in the side, but it still felt a lot better than not having any armor at all, giving her the confidence to walk around the Docks looking for more work. Even just helping unload cargo would do, honestly.

She finally managed to find it in the form of a very grumpy-looking, gray-bearded dwarf who referred to her exclusively as “hey you” or “human”. He had a whole cartload of jewelry that he needed to get from the docks to the Merchant’s Guild in Hightown without incident, and his hired hands were too drunk to be of any use, and a woman with a giant axe was better than nothing. Thirty silvers for the whole trip.

“ _Thirty?!_ ” Hawke exclaimed, her eyes traveling over the hundreds of sovereigns worth of jewels and precious metals in his cart. “You miserly, gold-grubbing--!”

“You can take it, or I can hire someone else. There’s plenty of rats around here foaming at the mouth for silver. It doesn’t have to be you,” the dwarf replied gruffly, swinging a tarp over his cart. 

Hawke grit her teeth, but her family did have to eat. “Fine. Let’s go.”

The trip was relatively uneventful, save the odd looks she got from her former smuggling contacts, who fortunately decided not to try anything with the old dwarf, despite his being a _prime_ target for their usual shenanigans. Perhaps they just knew that Hawke was pretty well-informed on their tactics and was thus better-suited to repelling them than your average hired hand. Or maybe they just didn’t feel like raiding anyone that day. Who could tell?

The dwarf commented on their luck when they finally arrived at the Merchant’s Guild, but all Hawke told him was that she had been “pretty busy in Kirkwall’s underground lately.” Fortunately, he seemed too unconcerned with her to bother asking further questions.

“Help me unload this cargo, human,” he demanded.

“Of course, master dwarf,” Hawke answered as cheerily as she dared. She brought own barrels of goods down from the cart and the dwarf took stock of them as they reached the ground. She managed to resist the urge to steal any of the jewelry… _until_ he had already checked to make sure it was all there. Just a little golden necklace. Nothing too fancy. But probably worth the _actual_ cost of her labor once she pawned it off in Lowtown.

While she worked, she kept her ears open for the gossip of the dwarves around her, already half-drowned in their good surfacer mead.

“They say that Tethras is planning some big job in the Deep Roads.”

“That nug-brain… This far from Orzammar there’s not a _chance_ the Legion’s going to come save him when he gets caught in an ambush. He’ll be dead before he reaches a single Thaig, I bet you ten sovereigns.”

“I’ll take that bet,” Hawke’s dwarven employer shouted, already seeming to have forgotten her entirely. “You idiots realize that now’s the perfect time for an expedition, don’t you? With the Blight barely over, those tunnels’re almost empty. And being this far from Orzammar just means nobody’s managed to go picking yet. I’d ask to join Bartrand myself if I knew he wasn’t so damn greedy and stubborn.”

 _Look who’s talking,_ Hawke thought, depositing the gold chain into the pocket still sewn into the inner lining of her armor. 

But still… a Deep Roads expedition into uncharted territory? This could be _exactly_ what she and Bethany needed to get their family out of Gamlen’s rotting hole of a house. _And_ to keep the Templars from breathing down Bethany’s neck.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sure, Bartrand Tethras was a regular hard-ass. Yes, he completely shut down their effort to hire onto the expedition. And yes, Hawke’s momentary lapse in judgement thanks to her frustration _did_ allow a street thief to snatch her purse, but really, she was in _complete control_ of the situation, even before Varric stepped in.

Not that his crossbow wasn’t _impressive_ or that he wasn’t charming-- an uncommon quality, at least compared to most of the dwarves Naiyah had met-- but she was a little bit miffed at not being able to take down the cutpurse herself. It would’ve been good exercise.

But Varric made some good points. Getting out of Kirkwall _did_ sound like a good idea, with Knight-Commander Meredith apparently cracking down on mages thanks to the Qunari presence in the city. Two things which, to Hawke, seemed entirely unrelated, but then, not everyone could be sensible in times like the ones they lived in. 

And with some of the contacts in the merchant’s guild, or whatever else Varric’s “connections” could be considered, Hawke just _might_ have a network of potential jobs strong enough to support her without Athenril’s help. 

“So… you’re just going to tag along with me until I gather enough coin to join as a partner in this expedition?” Naiyah asked, watching Varric’s short footsteps speed up to keep pace with her long strides.

“Why not? According to Athenril, you’re the kind of woman who keeps things interesting, though you don’t have a subtle bone in your body.”

“Oh, I’ve got just the _one_. The really tiny one in the middle of my pinky toe.”

“Must come in handy.”

“Not really. I stub the thing on furniture almost _every_ time I have to use the latrine in the middle of the night.”

“Ah, the curse of subtlety.”

Naiyah paused, glancing down at Varric. “What _did_ Athenril tell you about me?”

“You’ve got a strong arm, are practically invincible, and you’ve got a mouth like a viper. Only positives, I assure you.”

“Huh…” she continued walking. “And I’m assuming you’re saying you’ll bring subtlety to compensate for my lack thereof?”

“Exactly! You need a lock picked or a trap disarmed, I’m your dwarf.”

Naiyah snorted, gesturing toward their destination. “May want to keep those skills to yourself for a bit, Varric. Since _my_ first contact is in the City Guard.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aveline _did_ have work for her, though not much. Catch a patrol that’s probably going to get ambushed up Sundermount.

Wait… Sundermount? She was supposed to do something in Sundermount…

THE DALISH!

Hawke grabbed at her collar, suddenly remembering the amulet Flemeth had given her to give to the Dalish elves outside Kirkwall, which Hawke had recently heard had taken up camp not far from Kirkwall. Oops.

Admittedly Flemeth hadn’t really given them a time frame for _when_ to give it to the Dalish. So they were probably fine? Still, best not to push it.

She held up the amulet for Aveline to see, memory dawning in the other woman’s eyes as well. “Maker’s Mercy, Hawke! You still haven’t delivered that cursed thing?!”

Varric looked up at the amulet, then back and forth between the two women. “I’m assuming this is important?”

“It was given to us by the Witch of the Wilds, right before she turned into a dragon and carried us past the darkspawn horde, if you’ll believe it,” Hawke answered, tucking the amulet back into her armor.

Varric chuckled. “Oh, this I have to hear.”

“It’s not my favorite story,” Bethany interrupted. “And I imagine it’s not Aveline’s either.”

“That only makes me want to know more.”

“Buy me a couple pints of ale somewhere _other_ than the Hanged Man and we’ll see about the whole story, Varric,” Hawke answered, patting his shoulder.

“What’s wrong with the ale at the Hanged Man?!”

“Your incredibly low standards.”

“Is that a dwarf joke? I’m offended.”

“Well, I didn’t intend it that way at the time, but now that you’ve pointed it out, it’s a _hilarious_ dwarf joke.”

“...I’ll give that one to you.”

They continued through Hightown toward the Chantry, hoping there might be some work on the Chanter’s Board. Something _totally_ legal to appease Aveline’s love of law and order.

And they found it! In the form of a very handsome man with a Starkhaven accent arguing with Grand Cleric Elthina.

“Sebastian! Stop this madness! The Chantry cannot condone revenge, Sebastian!”

Hawke stopped her party, watching the argument unfold as the young man pinned a piece of paper to the Chanter’s board.

“It is my right, my _duty_ to show these assassins there is nowhere in the Free Marches to hide!” He spun on his heel, not even glancing at Hawke as he walked past her party.

“This is _murder!”_ the Grand Cleric shouted after him, ripping the paper off of the board.

Without even missing a step, Sebastian pulled his bow off of his back, grabbed an arrow, and sent it sailing through the air right past Hawke’s nose, ripping the paper out of Elthina’s hands and pinned back onto the board in less than a few seconds.

“No. What happened to my family was murder,” he replied, still braced in an archer’s pose. Finally he stomped out of the courtyard, nose high in the air.

Once Elthina had shaken her head and returned to the inside of the Chantry, Naiyah nudged her sister and muttered, “well, _that_ was sexy, wasn’t it?”

“I would argue with you, but…” Bethany shrugged. “Better him than the Rose’s girls.” She strolled over to the board and grabbed the arrow, pulling back on it with all of her weight before it finally came free. “This is a good job for you, Sister. Four gold coins in exchange for killing the assassins who slaughtered the Vaels of Starkhaven.”

“Yes, that _does_ check all of my boxes,” Naiyah remarked, taking the paper from her sister. “And unlike the Chantry, _I_ for one am a big fan of revenge.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After a long day of doing odd jobs in exchange for a grand total of two gold coins-- a long way from her goal of fifty in order to join Batrand’s expedition-- which included annihilating one of the groups of assassins responsible for the deaths of Sebastian’s family, Naiyah returned to Gamlen’s hovel for food and supplies. And her dog.

As soon as she arrived, Muffin trotted over to her with a large bundle of letters in his mouth, getting them soggy but wagging his tail the entire time.

Naiyah grabbed them from the dog’s mouth and waved them through the air to dry off some of the dog slobber, patting him on the head. “Did you get my mail, Muffin?! What a good boy!”

“He almost ripped the arm off the delivery man. Useless mutt,” Gamlen scowled.

“Oh he did _not_ ,” Naiyah chastised, plopping into her desk chair while still scratching Muffin’s head. “He’d only do that if the delivery man was trying to steal something.”

“Or maybe you don’t train your dog as well as you think you do.”

“Nonsense. You just hate him because he’s Ferelden, like Bethany and me.”

“I--” he stopped, his face contorted in an effort to not say the truth. Finally he just stomped past her and out the door, probably for another visit to the Blooming Rose to spend Naiyah’s hard-earned-or-stolen coin on prostitutes. What little of it she gave him as allowance.

Her main source of stress gone, Naiyah turned back to the stack of letters. An impressive amount, really. Most of them were from her former contacts, suddenly apologetic for having turned her down, that they welcomed her business. 

_I guess Varric wasn’t lying about his influence_ , Naiyah mused, sorting the genuine job offers from the well-wishes. She almost threw the letter from Athenril away on principle. She hadn’t even needed to read the name-- she’d recognized the handwriting on the outside of the envelope immediately. But her curiosity got the better of her and she grabbed her pocket knife to slice it open and read the message inside.

_Hawke,_

_Your year's up and you're free to go. Despite what you think, we had a good thing working together. I might pass along an opportunity or two, if you're willing to get your hands dirty. Stay safe._

_Athenril_

She tossed it aside just as Bethany came in, carrying a bag of groceries. “We’re going to owe Elegant after this, but she just gave us enough supplies to last a month. She says she’s ‘sure we’ll be able to pay it back.’ I hope that’s a good thing.” She set the bag down, noticing the letters in Naiyah’s hands. “I hope those aren’t more bills.”

“Oh, Maker, no-- they’re job offers. Look at this one.”

Bethany accepted the letter as if it was poisoned, peering down at its contents. “Hubert? From the Hightown Market?”

“Yes, it seems we’re moving up in the world, Sister! I wonder if he knows that if he cheats me I’ll take everything he owns?”

“I think he knows, Naiyah,” Bethany scoffed, sitting on the dirt floor next to Muffin and running her fingers through the fur on the dog’s back. “What about that one?”

“Oh, this?” Naiyah lifted the last envelope and slit it open, sliding the message out and scanning over it. “It’s… from Athenril. She says one of her contacts is looking for someone to do a job for him, and he’s always paid well. Lowtown Bazaar at night.”

Bethany raised an eyebrow. “Trap?”

“Most definitely.”

“And yet something tells me you’re going to go anyway.”

“Naturally. I am attracted to the sound of coin like a maggot to rotting flesh.”

Bethany grimaced. “Can you think of any similes that _aren’t_ revolting?” She shook her head, nudging her sister’s ankle with her elbow. “Anyway, Gamlen told me that he gave our estate to some slaver who beat him at dice. Apparently our ancestral home is now a base for slavers from all over Thedas.”

The thought of it nearly made Naiyah cough up blood again. “ _Slavers?!_ We can’t let that stand!”

“I know. We should break in there, get the will for Mother. I already talked to both of them about this. Gamlen said they guard the front entrance well. But _Mother_ gave me her old key. She said it should unlock the cellar. Apparently the sewers run right beneath the house.”

Naiyah was up out of her seat so fast she knocked the chair over. “Then let’s go! Come on, Muffin, it’s time to bust some slaver skulls!”

The dog barked excitedly, right on her heels as she snatched her axe and flew out the door.

“Oh, wait, Naiyah! We still haven’t eaten supper!”

“We’ll grab something at the Hanged Man when we pick up Varric. Proper thieving requires proper thieves.”

“You are far too excited by this idea.”

“I _hate_ slavers. Getting fat and rich off of kidnapping and blood magic. I won’t have it! Actually-- you go to the Viscount’s palace and pick up Aveline. She’ll agree with this job, I know she will. We’ll make a picnic of it!”

“A picnic in a slaver’s den… what would the Grand Cleric say?”

“Right now? Something along the lines of ‘that is _murder_ , Hawke!’ Unfortunately, I don’t have a cool bow to do a trick shot right out of her hands.”

“Ugh, you’re _still_ going on about that? You’re going to fall in love with every man and woman in Kirkwall with a weapon if you keep going at this rate!”

“Hey, I said nothing about love. I was merely… intrigued.”

“Oh yes, the spot between your legs was ‘intrigued’, I’ll bet.”

“Oh _now_ what would the Grand Cleric think?! First, the Chantry’s star pupil advocates for breaking and entering, _then_ she’s talking about her sister’s sexual attractions?”

“Well it’s not breaking and entering if we have a key, is it?” Bethany replied, a coy smile on her face.

“Ooh, tell that one to Varric. He’ll get a kick out of it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Varric did indeed get a kick out of that. Though he also got a kick out of Aveline explaining to him that Hawke had a “strict moral code, if a twisted one.” Which was of course why they were all making their way to Darktown after a dinner of mystery stew and ale at the Hanged Man.

They didn’t get far, though, because Naiyah suddenly remembered her letter from Athenril and decided that she’d stop by the bazaar quick before they headed over to the slaver’s den. “Because jobs that pay well don’t stay open for long,” she insisted. “We’ll just swing by and see what Anso wants.”

There weren’t too many objections, since it wasn’t that far out of their way-- only Bethany, reminding her that it was probably a trap.

At this time of night the bazaar was empty of just about anyone who wasn’t a beggar, prostitute, or thief, so the well-dressed dwarf rummaging nervously through a set of chests was pretty noticeable. Honestly, Naiyah was surprised he hadn’t been jumped already. Though perhaps it was his jumpiness that had kept him safe thus far. The way he’d reacted when she’d asked him if he was Anso or not made it seem like he was certainly expecting an attack.

“Y-you’re the one that smuggler told me about? The one looking for… work?”

“I assume so. Why, did you think I was going to stab you in the back without asking for payment?”

“Oh! No, no! Or… at least I hope not.” But he kept glancing around, not just at Hawke and her companions, but at doorways, stairs, shadows. “My apologies, human. I haven’t been on the surface very long. I keep thinking I’ll fall up into that sky any minute!”

“Uh-huh…” Hawke glanced at Varric, who shrugged. 

“Lots of dwarves are used to having ceilings.”

“But I digress,” Anso continued, his voice still shaking. “I need some help. Badly, in fact. Some product of mine has been… misplaced. The men who were supposed to deliver it decided not to. If you retrieve my property, I could reward you handsomely…?”

“Well, handsome reward does sound nice right now…” Hawke replied, crossing her arms and frowning down at Anso pensively. “So what did these men steal?”

“Did I say _steal?_ I wouldn’t go that far. They seemed like perfectly reasonable smugglers. They… smiled and everything!”

Hawke glanced back at Bethany, who just mouthed the word _trap_.

“The goods are valuable, however. And illegal. And my client wants them very, very badly! You know how those Templars can be!”

“Oh I certainly do,” Hawke grumbled sarcastically, remembering the soreness of her stomach from where she’d been kicked only a couple of weeks earlier. “So it’s lyrium, then?”

“Definitely lyrium,” Varric chimed in.

“Ssshhh! By the Paragons, not so loudly!”

Hawke caught Aveline glaring at her and sighed. “Oh, come on, Av, I need the money.”

“Here I could _swear_ you called me out in the middle of the night to help you clear out a slaver den, not retrieve _illegal goods_.”

“And we will! We’re just getting a side job along the way. And after we retrieve the goods for him, Anso’s going to run clean, won’t you Anso?”

“Yes! Mother was right, I should’ve gotten that job sweeping stables!”

Aveline sighed, turning away before she could see Hawke’s victorious grin.

“It’s a deal, then! We’ll head over to grab that as soon as we chase some slavers out of my family estate. Make sure you hold that reward for me!” Hawke shook his hand cheerily, then tightened her grip, rolling the dwarf’s knuckles through her hand. _Or else._

He squeaked the directions to the hideout, and Hawke fought the urge to laugh as she turned away, one arm around Aveline’s shoulders and the other around her sister’s. “Alright! Let’s go kill some slavers!”

“Or arrest them,” Aveline suggested.

“Oh, let’s face it, Av, I’m gonna kill them.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was fairly satisfying, tearing through the former Amell family estate and destroying every thug they encountered. Though, she noticed, the edge of her axe blade was starting to dull from smashing into so many ribcages. Bone was just not very friendly to steel, it seemed.

It was _also_ nice having companions to watch her back again. More than once she’d be too focused on carving up one enemy to notice an assassin attempting to sneak up behind her, only to turn and see a crossbow bolt sprout through his chest. She was _really_ starting to wish Varric wasn’t so weird about his crossbow, because she was starting to want one. Though her aim was truly lousy. 

There was also the matter of the gas traps that she ran _right_ through without even thinking about, almost getting knocked out before Varric managed to disable the release mechanism.

“Alright, I’m starting to admit it, you’re useful to have around,” she coughed, waving the last of the gas away from her face.

“See? I knew you’d come around.”

They pressed forward, finding a family portrait that Naiyah immediately handed to Bethany, then into a room guarded by, of course, a _mage_ of all things. Before they entered, Naiyah huddled everyone together and figured out a game plan. Varric focus his fire on the mage. Naiyah and Aveline take out the other slaver guards, and Bethany uses healing spells to keep them in check, and Muffin picks off anyone who straggles away from the fight. Good? Good.

The moment everything was set, Naiyah and Aveline charged forward, blades flashing in torchlight and crunching through armor. She was _definitely_ going to need a new axe after this.

She noticed the mage starting to fire projectiles at Bethany and immediately jumped into the way, kicking one of the slaver guards she’d been fighting into Aveline’s sword and then rushing at the mage’s barrier, right into the line of fire. Fortunately, it was an ice spell, so although it was _exceedingly_ cold, it didn’t otherwise injure her. But now that she had the mage’s attention, the barrier went down out of surprise. Only for a second, really, but plenty of time both for one of Varric’s bolts and one of Bethany’s lightning strikes to hit at exactly the same time. The mage crumpled, and Naiyah hummed a victory song to herself as she immediately began rummaging through the slavers’ clothing for coins and jewelry.

“Ooh, Varric, we’re up to five gold!” she remarked cheerfully, tossing her coin purse from hand to hand and listening to the jingling. “Just forty-five more to go!”

“And look!” Bethany called, swinging open the door to the vault. “This is it! See, we have a family crest!”

Naiyah ran over, her eyes scanning over the furniture, chests, and coat of arms, all high-quality materials that would be gleaming if it weren’t for the layer of dust on top of everything.

“All this is ours, huh?” she mused, wandering over to the coat of arms. “It doesn’t quite feel real. Like… this can’t possibly belong to the Hawkes that fled a burning shack in Lothering. That must be a different family.”

She leaned against the wall, smirking at her sister. “How much do you think we could sell this for?”

“ _Naiyah!”_

“Oh, alright, alright. Let’s grab the will and go. I still want to do Anso’s job before the night is over. Then we can sleep all day tomorrow.”

The will was, unsurprisingly, in the locked mahogany chest in the very corner of the room, which also required Varric’s expertise, since Bethany seemed to frown on the idea of kicking it open.

The cellars cleared of bandits, Hawke’s companions made their way back to the entrance in Darktown, but she stayed for a moment, still staring up at the family crest, imprinting the image into her mind.

 _I’ll be back for you soon_ , she promised. _Fair and square._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As the group passed into the Alienage, Hawke looked up at the _vhenadahl_ and shivered, half-expecting to see Athenril grinning down at her from the branches. But only the moon hung ripe from the huge tree’s grasp, casting everything silver-white, rendering dust and filth invisible in its cleansing glow.

It made everything seem quiet, peaceful, as if the elven beggar wasn’t still in full view and the dogs weren’t barking and howling somewhere in the distance of the city.

“You alright, Hawke?” Aveline asked, following her gaze to the top of the branches.

Hawke closed her eyes, returning her mind to the task at hand. “Just getting tired. Let’s do this thing so we can get some sleep.”

She moved forward, examining the door frames and windows of the various buildings in the alienage for one that didn’t seem to be housing poverty-stricken elves. Cheap wood, much of it scrap… mud-brick walls baked in sunlight instead of ovens… footsteps in the moon-washed dust, dozens of them.

She stopped at one doorway whose dust had been disturbed quite recently, the wood polished by wear. “Ah, here we go. Much too big to be elven footprints. Definitely the hideout Anso mentioned.”

She rapped her knuckles against the door, standing up straight. “Hello~ the name’s Hawke. You wouldn’t happen to have some stolen contraband, would you?”

Aveline rolled her eyes. “As if they’re stupid enough to just--”

The door flew open, almost smashing into Hawke had she not dove out of the way in order to grab Aveline’s armor and haul her backwards, just out of the way of the arrow that came sailing toward her the moment the door opened.

“Ah, well, you’re _definitely_ not an elf,” Naiyah noted, rolling to her feet and sliding her axe off of her back as she considered the masked figure looming in the doorway. “Naughty naughty.”

He reached for another arrow, but never got a chance to notch it thanks to the blast of lightning that burned a hole right through his stomach and jolted the bandit behind him with enough electricity to bring him to his knees.

“Ooh, nice job, Sister!” Naiyah shouted, running into the abandoned house axe-drawn, completely falling for the trap right in front of the door, almost losing her eyebrows to the resulting jets of flame had she been just a tad slower. She ignored it, knowing full-well that Bethany would just grab hold of the flame with her magic and turn it against the bandits, or that Varric would manage to disarm it.

She ducked behind Aveline’s shield just in time to avoid another arrow, then used said shield as a jumping pad to launch herself at a pair of rogues that were trying to sneak up on Varric. They fell backwards under her weight, one already dead from the axe blade, the other pinned under her knees. She grabbed his head and twisted, then jerked her axe out of the other’s body and turned just in time to parry another attempted backstab, retaliating against her would-be attacker by spinning on the shaft of her axe and using the momentum to roundhouse kick him flying into the barrels and crates on the front wall, sending splinters and dust flying around the room.

“Maker’s breath, Hawke, you do get results, don’t you?!” Varric shouted over the crash, taking out another thug with his crossbow.

“I do my best,” Naiyah answered, straightening and dusting off her armor.

“Your _best_?! He went flying ten feet away!”

“Don’t encourage her, Varric,” Aveline warned. “Her head’s big enough as it is.”

“Ha-ha. Come on, time to find this smuggled lyrium.”

She stepped over the body of the bandit amidst the wooden debris and walked through the house, identifying the chest that matched Anso’s description.

“Alright, it’s…” she swung the chest open and found… nothing. “Empty?”

“They must’ve sold the stuff already,” Varric shrugged.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” insisted Bethany.

Naiyah straightened, huffing. “Curses, I was hoping for a bit more coin. Well… guess there’s no choice but to go back to Anso and tell him.”

She investigated the bodies for money or tools, then led the rest of her friends back through the door, holding it open so that they could all get through and then shutting it politely behind them. She heard all of the footsteps surrounding them as they exited, of course, but an open doorway was just a recipe for disaster.

“That’s not the elf! Who is that?!”

Ah, Tevinter. Obvious from the hideous helmets.

“It doesn’t matter!” the man to the leader’s left announced, unsheathing his sword and crouching into an attacking pose. “We were told to kill whoever enters the house!”

Five of the slavehunters charged forward at once, three of them sliced through by Naiyah’s axe before they could even reach the others. She frowned down at the blade of her axe, bemoaning its dulled edge. It _should_ have been able to cut through all five at once…

She jumped over an attempt to sweep her legs out from under her, using the momentum of the jump to bring her axe down on the leader’s skull, cracking it clean in half thanks to the fact that the foolish woman wasn’t wearing a helmet. Neither was Hawke, of course, but that was a fashion decision. 

She didn’t really have to worry about the two that she’d missed, though, because Aveline was handling them quite well. Once had his nose broken by her shield, the other fell quickly to a jab from her sword. And the one that suddenly realized that he was suddenly alone on the battlefield and tried to run… that one was taken care of by a bolt from Bianca.

Bethany brushed her bangs out of her face, poking at one of the slavers with her staff. “What did I tell you? Trap.”

The battle finished, Hawke leaned on her axe and surveyed the carnage. “And it was starting to look so _clean_ in the Alienage…” she huffed, digging through the leader’s armor. “Ooh, I think I’m going to take her splintmail, though. I think it might actually fit me!”

“Do you _want_ to get mistaken for a slaver?” admonished Bethany.

“Oh, a bit of polish and paint and I can get the Tevinter logo out,” Naiyah scoffed, lifting the armor to the moonlight.

Upon hearing steps come down the stone stairs toward her, she dropped the armor, grabbing her axe and lifting it between her and the new slaver in front of her.

“I don’t know who you are, stranger, but you’ve made a serious mistake coming here,” the man growled, seemingly unaware that he was surrounded by Tevinter corpses.

Hawke glanced sideways at Aveline, who was gritting her teeth, her hand on her sword. Deciding that was permission to continue her murder spree, Hawke tensed her muscles, ready to launch at the new slaver leader.

“Liutenant! I want everyone in the clearing! Now!”

Hawke waited for the sound of shuffling armor, of footsteps on stone, but heard nothing. “Um…”

At a bit of gurgling from the top of the stairs, Hawke leaned sideways to see around the Tevinter captain’s armor as a single soldier stumbled into view, blood spurting from a wound in his side. 

“C-Captain…”

The soldier collapsed, tumbling down the steps in a rain of blood, landing at the captain’s feet.

Naiyah blinked, following the trail of blood back up to the one responsible, a figure moving smoothly around the alienage walls toward the stairs, glaring defiantly down at the Tevinter captain.

The moonlight glinted beautifully on silver-white hair as the figure stepped out of the shadows, pouring over his lithe, thin body and pooling into the hollows of his cheekbones, the curves of his muscles, the silver accents on his black armor.

Naiyah thought she’d gotten used to seeing elves after her time in Kirkwall, with Athenril, but this elf was a whole different story. Her pulse had jumped into her throat and she suddenly forgot all about the man in the Chantry courtyard.

“Your men are dead and your trap has failed,” the elf announced in a deep, throaty voice that would have weakened her in the knees were she a lesser woman. “I suggest running back to your master while you can.”

He strolled calmly down the steps, stopping in front of Hawke and regarding her for a moment, his deep green eyes wandering over the bodies scattered about, the blood on her armor, the hair hanging in her face. He looked like he wanted to say something to her, but was interrupted by the captain grabbing him by the shoulder and attempting to haul him backwards.

“You’re going nowhere, _slave!”_

Naiyah thought about interceding, but it so turned out she didn’t need to. Instead, the elf erupted in a blue-white glow and spun on his attacker, his hand plunging right through the splintmail armor over the man’s chest and then emerging, clenching a still-beating heart.

The glow dissipated and the elf tossed the heart to the ground in disgust as the Tevinter captain fell. “I am not a slave!” He growled, turning back to Hawke and her friends.

She wasn’t sure she’d ever been this aroused before.

Truly. The girls at the Rose had done their very best, but it seemed that _nothing_ was quite so sexually stimulating as watching someone rip a man’s heart out of his chest with his bare hands.

It was a _very_ distracting feeling. She was barely even internalizing most of the conversation, just struggling to keep her face neutral as she replied with a series of “uh-huh!” “Of course!” and “Absolutely!”

The elf paced as he talked, and Hawke wondered if he realized how intensely she was following him with her eyes.

She felt a _thwack_ in the back of her head and suddenly came to her senses, turning around to see Bethany glaring at her.

“My name is Fenris. These men were Imperial Bounty Hunters seeking to recover a magister’s lost property. Namely myself. They were trying to lure me into the open. Crude as their methods were, I could not face them alone. Thankfully, Anso chose wisely.”

Naiyah leaned on her axe again, shrugging. “Well, it was no big deal. I clean out slaver dens every Tuesday. Twice on this one, apparently.”

“Ah, here she goes,” Aveline scoffed.

Ignoring her friends’ commentary, Naiyah pressed Fenris for information. How he was a slave, what the (beautiful) markings on his skin were, if they had something to do with him being able to rip a man’s heart out through his ribcage… and, of course, why he felt the need to go through Anso when Naiyah would have been _happy_ to help him had he just asked.

“All this for an empty box?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

“No. There’s more.” Fenris crouched next to the fallen captain’s body and rifled through his belt pockets, producing a slip of paper with a broken, intricate purple-wax seal. “It’s as I thought,” he announced, straightening. “My former master accompanied them to the city. I know you have questions, but I must confront him before he flees. I will need your help.”

“Of course!” Naiyah replied, swinging her axe in front of her dramatically, catching it and frowning at the blade. “Any chance I can stop and grab a new weapon? _Yours_ is very nice, by the way. I was always fond of big swords.”

She felt her sister zap her with a lightning spell and winced “Oh never mind. Can still kill people with a hammer! Lets go!”

This time it was Aveline that grabbed her by the collar, hauling her back from the staircase. “You’re really just going to run right into a _Tevinter Magister’s_ mansion just because an escaped slave, who lured you into a _trap,_ asked you to?!”

Hawke twisted in her grip, rethinking slightly. “Ah, you’re right. I should try on the armor first.”

She wriggled free, then ran back to the armor she’d started pulling off the slaver woman. Knowing Aveline was scowling at her over crossed arms, she sighed, unbuckling her Ferelden armor and sticking her tongue out at the other woman as her breastplate fell to the ground. “I know you’ve got to work tomorrow, Madam Guard. If you want, you can go back to the barracks. I’ve got this.”

Aveline glanced at Fenris, who was still watching Hawke with interest as she began buckling the “new” armor over her linen clothes. “Fine. Stay out of trouble, Hawke.”

Naiyah straightened, adjusting her bracers. “You know I won’t, Aveline.”

Once gone, Naiyah patted Bethany and Varric on the back, then smiled at Fenris and gestured toward the entrance to the alienage. “Lead the way!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The fact that this was the second Hightown mansion she’d broken into within a single night was not lost on Naiyah Hawke. Unfortunately, this one was guarded by combatants _much_ more dangerous than simple slaver thugs. 

“DEMONS!” she shouted, shoving Bethany out of the way of a shade’s claws, instead scraping against Naiyah’s new splintmail armor. She winced from the contact, but the demon was quickly dispatched by Fenris’ sword. He raised an eyebrow at her, and she shrugged, swinging her axe over his head to cut through another shade’s beady eyes.

“Varric!” She shouted, gesturing toward the tripwire she had _just_ barely managed to avoid this time, parrying another set of claws with the flat of her axe and then grabbing the shade’s arm away from Bethany’s staff, jerking it towards herself and then twisting it, tight in her grip, until the claws pierced the thing’s own carapace. 

The demon disappeared in a cloud of dust, and she grinned at Fenris but hid her hand behind her back, waggling her fingers to determine just how numb it had suddenly become.

Once Varric cleared them to continue through the next room, they pushed onward through the open doors of the mansion, fighting through more waves of shades with each threshold they crossed. After the fourth room straight of shades, all of them bearing down on Naiyah with their gnashing teeth, she whistled, the sharp tone echoing through the mansion’s walls as she held back a shade’s claws with the shaft of her axe.

A brown blur came crashing through the window onto the shade attacking her, knocking it to the ground. Muffin didn’t hesitate a second, burying his teeth into the demon’s carapace, his claws scratching deep gashes.

Naiyah scrambled to her feet, ducking under a swing of Fenris’ sword and smashing her axe into another shade, pinning it down while Varric filled it full of crossbow bolts.

She moved ever forward, ever faster, carving through the shades easier and easier with each wave, despite the exhaustion she knew she should be feeling. It had been a while since she’d been in a fight quite as challenging as this one. And the sound of Fenris’ sword slicing through the air, the inhuman growling and gurgling of the demons… it reminded her of Ostagar. The rush of battle in the air, the desperation and rage as she fought for her life, for her sister’s life… and now for Varric’s and Fenris’.

She smashed her axe into another shade’s midsection, sending it flying backwards but not managing to cut into it. “Curses!” she shouted, hurling the axe at it, sending it exploding into dust and shadow.

“You can’t just _sharpen_ the bloody thing?” Fenris asked her, cutting through two shades with an arc of his sword.

“I’ve been _very_ busy today, in case you didn’t notice,” Hawke scolded, wandering over to a suit of armor. “Ah, this will do nicely!” She grabbed the hilt of the bastard sword the armor was holding and yanked it backwards, ripping the gloves right off of the suit. “Whoops.” She shook the gloves off, then investigated the blade. “Yeah, this’ll do for now.”

Finally equipped with a blade that had a useable edge, the rest of the shades were comparably simple to defeat. The rage demon significantly less so, but that’s what she had Bethany for! Just a couple ice spells right into the cursed thing’s mouth and Hawke and Fenris could take care of the rest.

Finally, they managed to find a key that seemed like it would fit into the lock keeping them from the center of the manor where Danarius was ostensibly waiting, and Naiyah held it out to Fenris.

Bethany grinned at it, then nudged Varric. “You know, it’s not breaking and entering if you have a key.”

“Perfect!” Varric snorted, hoisting Bianca back onto his shoulder. “That makes all of this easier.”

The Arcane Horror waiting for them on the other side of the door was a different story, though. Naiyah used herself mostly as a decoy, luring its attacks to her, relying on her battle-fever to keep herself moving as it blasted her with fire, then ice, but leaving itself completely open to Varric’s bolts and Fenris’ sword. Once it was taken care of, disappearing with a screech, Fenris sheathed his sword and turned back toward Hawke.

“Gone. I had hoped… no, it doesn’t matter any longer.” He shook his head, brushing a splatter of ichor from his cheek. “I assume Danarius left valuables behind. Take them if you… are you alright? You look… pale.”

“That’s just my normal skin tone,” Naiyah quipped, forcing a laugh. In truth, the day’s struggles were wearing at her, and her stomach felt like it was twisting itself in knots. “I try to go for ‘the fairest in the land’ look, you know.”

Her joke didn’t seem to reach him. “I… need some air,” he insisted, pushing past her and back out of the mansion.

After stealing absolutely everything of value from the mansion, she rubbed her eyes, noting the horizon tinged with pink above them as she finally exited Danarius’ death-house. She saw Fenris waiting for them, leaning against the mansion with one leg resting back against the wall.

“Go ahead without me,” she insisted to Bethany and Varric. “You must be tired.”

“I thought you’d never say so,” Bethany breathed with relief, her shoulders slumping. “I’ve cast so many spells today I think it’ll take me weeks to get my energy back. I don’t know _how_ you can still be walking after swinging a huge chunk of metal around this whole time.”

“It’s my older-sister power.”

“Don’t worry too much about the broody elf,” Varric warned.

“What? Worry? Me? I don’t think that’s quite the right verb.”

Varric snorted. “I’ll be sleeping for the next five days. Once those are up, we’ll try to scrounge up some more coin.”

Naiyah nodded, then watched both of them go. Once they’d disappeared down Hightown’s streets, she leaned against the wall next to Fenris and pulled her waterskin off of her belt. She chugged down several gulps, then held it out to Fenris. “You alright?”

Fenris glanced at her, then at the waterskin, hesitating for a moment before taking it from her hands. “It never ends.” He gulped down some water, then handed the skin back to her. “I escaped a land of dark magic only to have it hunt me at every turn. It is a plague burned into my flesh and my soul.”

He grimaced. “And now I find myself in the company of even more _mages_. I saw her casting spells inside. You harbor a viper in your midst. It will turn on you and strike when you least expect. That is in its nature.”

Naiyah raised an eyebrow at him, patting Muffin on the head as the dog sat down at her feet. “Well, I’d assume so. She is my sister, after all.” She tied the waterskin back onto her belt. “Though I’ll not have you calling her an ‘it’. Only I’m allowed to do that. And besides, her healing spells kept us _both_ alive in there.”

He snorted, setting both feet on the ground and relaxing his shoulders. “I… imagine I appear ungrateful. If so, I apologize, for nothing could be further from the truth. I did not find Danarius, but I still owe you a debt. Here is all the coin I have, as Anso promised.” He began rifling through the pockets on his belt, but Hawke laid a hand over his arm, stopping him.

“Don’t. It’s not necessary.”

He stared down at her hand on his arm, at her bare fingers on his skin, at the way the markings on his arm came to life under her touch, glowing a dim blue-white despite the growing orange of the coming dawn. He pulled out from under her grip, an expression on his face she didn’t understand. “You… are you a mage?!”

Naiyah looked down at her fingertips, kind of wanting to touch him again to see if his marks would glow the second time, but realizing that seemed to be a bad idea. “Uh… no? Do you see me shooting lightning out of my ass?”

“I…” he shook his head, straightening. “No. You’re right. I must simply be tired from the fighting. You… are sure you don’t want payment? I seem to recall you talking with that dwarf about needing money.”

“I’m not _so_ strapped for coin that I’m going to take the entire savings of an escaped elf. Why does your old master want you so badly, anyway?”

“He doesn’t want _me_ at all, just the markings on my skin. They are lyrium, burned into my flesh to provide the power that Danarius required of his pet. They always reacted to his magic, hence my aggression a moment ago. And now he wishes his precious investment returned, even if he must rip it from my corpse.”

“That seems _such_ a waste,” Hawke breathed, tracing the marks with her eyes, across his arms, up his neck, into his face. “Such a waste of a perfectly handsome elf.”

Fenris suddenly stepped away quickly, chuckling nervously.

 _Aha! He does have a weak spot!_ Naiyah thought, also noting how incredibly adorable his laugh had been.

He cleared his throat, but his cheeks were still slightly pink. “The truth is I know nothing about the ritual that placed the markings on me. It was Danarius’ choice, one he now regrets.”

“Oh I’m sure he does,” Hawke replied with a grin, tearing her gaze from his green eyes and looking down the street. “But I don’t. Actually… I’m planning an expedition I may need help with. If… you’d like to pay your debt to me by offering your _assistance_ instead of your coin. In the meantime, I certainly don’t mind keeping an eye out for Danarius for you.”

“Fair enough,” Fenris replied with a quirk of his lips. “Should you ever have need of me, I will be here. If Danarius wants his mansion back, he is free to return and claim it.”

“I’ll be sure to have need of you often, then,” Hawke replied, fighting a smirk. “But not today. You look tired.”

“Speak for yourself.” He looked back at her one last time before disappearing back through the door of the mansion, leaving her alone on the street.

Once he was gone, she felt her body relax, not realizing how tense she’d been while talking to him. And, no matter what she’d said, she _did_ feel exhausted. Actually, her knee was sitting in an odd spot and her insides felt tight, as if something was digging inside of her guts and squeezing the fluid out of each organ.

She felt liquid on her face and reached up to touch it, looking down at the dark crimson of blood now on her fingertips. She hurried to pull a handkerchief out of her pack, stemming the flow of blood from her nose before it could run onto her armor.

There was a lot of it, though. She was amazed it had waited until now, but thankful she hadn’t looked like an invalid while arguing with Fenris over the inherent danger of mages. Finally, she sat down in a shadowy corner of Hightown’s streets, waiting for the blood flow to ebb.

Her handkerchief was almost soaked by the time it did. But finally she wiped the last of it away, glancing into the somewhat shiny surface of her bracer to make sure none remained before she returned to Gamlen’s house for the night.

For now, at least, the bleeding had stopped.


	10. Esfera Cousland- Love, Faith, and Friendship

Esfera leaned forward over Morrigan’s table in the Spoiled Princess, depositing her armful of books with a loud _thunk_.

“I brought you some presents.”

“I really only wanted _one_ book, you know,” Morrigan replied dryly, but immediately began rifling through the pages of the first volume.

“Oh, hush. They’re all I could find in the Circle’s library even mentioning anything similar to Arcane Warriors. You said you couldn’t do the art until you studied it more, right?”

Morrigan frowned down at the pages. “I… have been attempting some spells on my own. In concept, 'tis not so different from shapeshifting: magic turned inwards, rather than outwards, changing the construction of one’s own body rather than the world around the self. But the application is… difficult. I suppose I should thank you for retrieving these for me?”

“If you want to. Though I think the one on the bottom is the one that deserves thanks.”

Morrigan lifted the three other books away from the stack and suddenly cracked a smile, staring wide-eyed down at the black leather-bound volume, tracing the intricate details of the tree whose branches stretched across the cover. “I am glad you were able to find it after all.” She paused, smiling in amusement. “My thanks for retrieving it. And these other tools for preserving a lost magical art. I’ll begin studying them immediately.”

“Don’t stay up all night, alright? We’ll be heading out to Honnleath in the morning to investigate the golem that merchant told us about.”

“You do realize 'tis morning _already_ , do you not?”

“Ah.” Esfera looked at the slats of sunlight peeking through the bottom of the tavern’s door and began massaging the bridge of her nose. “It _has_ been a long night, I suppose.”

“I gathered that,” Morrigan answered, flipping the grimoire closed and leaning over it, lacing her fingers together and resting her chin on her hands. “You should have seen Leliana; she was near hysterics, shouting that Templars were going to kill you and Alistair. I almost had to knock her out with a sleeping spell in order to keep her from contemplating assassination. You’re welcome for that, by the way.”

“I honestly thought you’d rather just let her assassinate them.”

Sitting up and scoffing, Morrigan waved the idea away. “Oh, personally, I’d have just let the tower burn, Templars and mages both. Sniveling cowards, the lot of them. But since I knew your noble nature would have you frowning at such a decision, I interceded. Was this incorrect of me?”

Esfera fought a smile, but failed. “No, Morrigan. Thank you. You have struggled a _great deal_ for me.”

“Yes, well… don’t expect it too often.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“This is our favorite place to make camp in all of Ferelden,” Esfera announced to Wynne, spreading her arms wide at the large clearing.

Wynne pursed her lips, frowning at the others, already beginning to pitch their tents. “What… are those wooden markers for?”

“Oh, those mark how far we can each throw Zevran,” Esfera replied with a shrug, finding a suitable spot nearby the fire to set down Wynne’s tent bag. “Currently Morrigan holds the highest record, if you’ll believe it. All the way to the other side of camp and into the watering hole!”

Wynne’s eyes widened in surprise, and Morrigan grumbled “I got tired of elves flying past my tent” as she walked by them.

Wynne began to laugh, shaking her head. “If I did not know any better, I would think this was a camp of young hooligans rather than a gathering of heroes struggling against a Blight.”

Grinning, Esfera asked, “why can we not be both?” But her smile quickly died. “In a time with so much loss and despair, with the fate of Ferelden in our hands… if we were to lose laughter and joy, too, the darkspawn would surely win.”

She began setting up Wynne’s tent, sticking the posts into the ground with more force than perhaps was necessary. “If I could not laugh I don’t know if I would have the strength to stand against all that we face, let alone lift my sword.” 

Wynne smilled, waving her away from tent-making. “You are wise for your years, my dear. And I am old, but not incapable. I can set up my tent myself.”

She did it with magic, of course, but she _did_ set it up herself.

Left to her own devices, Esfera decided to sit down next to the fire and redo her hair, which had only just fully dried after her bath back at Lake Calenhad.

Leliana stretched out next to her, laying her bow down at her side. “It is good to rest somewhere familiar. And to have Wynne with us is… a relief. I was so worried when you ran through those doors, knowing that there were abominations and demons and blood mages in there, with no mage to help you… I felt powerless.” She noticed Esfera braiding her hair and smiled. “Do you want some help?”

“With my hair?”

Leliana giggled. “Of course. It’s what women do, isn’t it? Braid each other’s hair and tell each other secrets?”

“I wouldn’t know; I didn’t have many women friends,” Esfera admitted, but didn’t resist when Leliana shifted behind her and began twisting her fingers through the orange tumble of Esfera’s hair, gently pulling out the tangles and smoothing out the waves enough to fold them into the braid.

“I love your hair, you know. It’s so long and lovely… and soft. And the way you wear it, too. It’s very nice, and it suits you. Simple, not like the elaborate hairstyles we wore in Orlais. They involved flowers, ribbons, jewels…” she continued, telling Esfera about a noblewoman who wore live songbirds, until her fingers went still in Esfera’s hair for a moment. “But listen to me, talking and talking. I’m sorry. My mind wanders so.”

Esfera, for her part, was just fighting to stay awake. No one had ever braided her hair for her, not like this. Nan had done it, sometimes, but the old woman’s hands had been rough, jerking her hair and tucking it together so tightly that Esfera feared her skull would cave in under the strain. But Leliana’s hands were so… gentle, so patient… soothing.

“I like listening to you talk, Leliana. I’m your friend, after all”

“Oh, I… yes. Very much so. I just feel so comfortable talking to you, like I could say anything and you wouldn’t judge me.” She tucked the last lock of hair into place and then tied it together with a string, patting Esfera’s head just to be sure. “I have not felt close enough to someone to worry after them so deeply in a long time. I suppose I am simply relieved that you’re alright after everything that happened. And annoyed that it was Zevran, and not me, that went in there with you.”

Esfera chuckled, so relaxed at the moment that she was almost in Leliana’s lap. “I kind of wished you were there, too. Zevran’s _useless_ at picking locks.”

From across the campfire: “Oh are we _still_ talking about that?!”

~~~~~~~~~~~Alistair~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was no coincidence that the perfect, happy life with which the sloth demon had tempted him in the Fade had included Esfera. Of course he had always been thinking to himself what would it be like if they had met under different circumstances, if they weren’t both fighting for their lives and to save the whole country. What their lives would be like when this was all over, even if they held their heads high and led Ferelden to victory. What then? Would he just duck his head and obey orders when a new Commander came from Weisshaupt, smile as they went their separate ways? He couldn’t imagine it.

Well, he could, but he didn’t like the imagining of it. It would be like staring at a painting with a giant hole cut through the canvas, desperately trying to appreciate the beauty of what remained while trying to ignore just how much was missing.

Even when she was only going to be away for a little bit, just popping down to Honnleath to see about getting a golem, nothing major, Alistair, I’ll be fine since I have Sten, Leliana, and Wynne with me… he missed her. He missed the sound of her voice and her laughter, missed watching her use her shield like a battering ram through a whole company of darkspawn and then turn and grin at him as if challenging him to do something cooler. 

Even now, waiting for her to come back, he was just laying on his back in his tent, staring up at the canvas above him and whispering her name to himself, feeling the shape of it in his mouth. He’d always loved the sound of her name, how it always came out in one breath, like a sigh.

Hopeless, he knew, and corny, and ridiculous, and perhaps just a _bit_ obsessive, but… he wasn’t letting anyone _know_ those things. It wasn’t like he was going to do it in front of her. That would just make her look at him weirdly. _That_ look, where she would raise one eyebrow and then roll her eyes and shake her head. 

He heard heavy footsteps and sat up immediately, setting aside the small carved statue Esfera had given him as a gift that he’d been holding up above his head and staring up at while he’d whispered her name to himself.

He came out of his tent just in time to see the golem walk past, turning to look at him with its disorienting, glowing eyes. “How many _humans_ has it collected?!” It grumbled, turning away from him instantly.

“Well, Shale, I was hoping on collecting pigeons instead,” Esfera joked, removing her helmet and letting her braid tumble loose as she waved at Alistair, “but it seems like humans are easier to acquire, oddly enough.”

“Ah, I see it has a sense of humor. Very funny.” Shale continued on their way, stomping off toward the edge of camp, leaving Esfera standing right next to Alistair… next to his tent… while Leliana went back to her tent to sleep and Sten returned to his usual vigil by the side of camp.

“You’re… you’re, ah, back.”

She gave him _that_ look and he died a bit inside. “I’m back. Sorry it’s the middle of the night. We had to solve a _puzzle_ to save a little girl. I’m… not all that good at puzzles. Thank goodness I had Wynne and Leliana with me. Still, it took longer than I meant to.” She paused, unbuckling the sheath of her sword and tossing it into her tent. “I missed you.”

Just kill him in one shot, why don’t you, Esfera? He could feel his whole body temperature rise.

“Oh, I, um, I… missed you, too. Not like… _crazy_ or anything… well, maybe that’s a lie. But that would be stupid, since you were only gone for a few days and…”

He froze when he felt her hand on his face, scarred fingers tracing the curve of his cheekbone. She wasn’t wearing her gloves. When had she taken off her gloves? Not that it mattered. She was _so_ gentle, and the way she was looking down at him with those bright green eyes… _Maker,_ she was so beautiful he couldn’t stand it.

“Alistair, are you alright? You seem… troubled.”

“Well, I was just thinking… all this time we’ve spent together… y’know, the tragedy, the constant battles, the whole Blight looming over us… will you miss it once it’s over?” 

Her hand fell away from his face and she frowned as she kicked off her boots. “Well, I could do without the tragedy, and I can’t imagine a life without fighting, not anymore.” She turned back to him, that same gentle smile on her face. “But I wouldn’t _miss_ it. I _would_ miss _you.”_

He loved her. He loved her so much.

“Alistair, I meant to say this… so many times before, so many times I can’t count them, but I’ve only got thirty years left to live, so I don’t have any time to waste: I care for you. A great deal.”

“But? I feel like there’s a ‘but’ in there.”

“Why would there be?” she asked, reaching down and taking both of his hands in her own.

“Because… I care for you, too. I think maybe it’s because we’ve gone through so much together, I don’t know. Or maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I’m fooling myself. Am I? Fooling myself?” _Of course you are. She’s Esfera Cousland, she’s the strongest woman in the entire world and she’s going to marry a handsome nobleman and be a hero. How could you possibly even think that--_ “Or do you think you might maybe… feel the same way about me?”

She squeezed his hands, a smile spreading across her face that seemed to glow in the embers of the midnight fire, stepping so close that he could count the flecks in her eyes. And did. Fourteen in the left, sixteen in the right.

“There is no ‘maybe,’ Alistair. I do. I am certain of it. There is an army of darkspawn bearing down on us from the south and a paranoid tyrant bearing down on us from the north, and every day I am uncertain of whether I will live to see tomorrow, if I can save the next helpless soul I encounter… my life is tinged with uncertainty. But not when it comes to you.”

This was impossible. This wasn’t happening. This was all too good to be true, and any moment he was going to wake up and be back in the Grey Warden barracks and Duncan was going to tease him for oversleeping. Just one big, crazy dream with one big, Esfera-shaped hole. And since it was a dream, he would wake up if he pulled her close, if he let go of her hands to tangle his fingers in the curls of hair that had pulled free of her braid. He would wake up if he pressed his lips to her mouth, breathed in her scent of sweat and blood and metal and cedarwood. 

But he wasn’t waking up. Why wasn’t he waking up? Was she _really_ hooking her hands in his shirt, kissing him deeper, her lips chapped and her fingers rough and yet nothing in his life had ever felt so perfect?

He couldn’t help but pull back, just enough to take a breath, still leaning his forehead against hers, knowing he was smiling like an idiot and trying desperately to stop. “That… wasn’t too soon, was it?”

“Oh Alistair,” she chuckled, tracing the curve of his mouth with the very tip of her thumb. “If you took any longer I was going to do it myself.”

“Oh, blast it! I should have waited!”

She laughed, kissing him again, this time only light, quickly, before she stepped back, her hands drifting down to his own and her fingers lingering in his touch. “I… should go to bed.”

“And… I should go back to bed, too. My own bed I mean. Bedroll. Since… we’re in a camp.” He shook his head. “Maker, I’ll never be able to form a coherent sentence when I’m around you, will I?”

“It adds to your charm,” she assured him.

“Funny, that’s what Leliana said…”

~~~~~~~~

He wished he’d been able to meet Bann Teagan again under _slightly_ better circumstances than fighting back the tide of an undead army, but at least he wasn’t the crazed, lonely bastard he’d been _last_ time they’d met. Sure, the company of two mages, a Qunari warrior, elven assassin, and Orlesian bard _was_ very strange, but considering they were incredibly well armed and armored and (thanks to Esfera’s influence) entirely willing to help, Teagan really didn’t have any place to complain.

For the span of about half a second, Alistair had wondered if Esfera had agreed to protect the town just because it was where he was from. Because they _were_ in a relationship, now. Or at least he was pretty sure that’s what it was. But that was a _stupid_ thought. Could he actually imagine Esfera Cousland _not_ leaping to aid a helpless village and dedicating every single asset at her disposal to the cause? Absolutely not.

Though her glare when the pig of a bartender at the tavern, Lloyd, argued with her for sticking her Grey Warden nose into Redcliffe business was… quite impressive. As was the moment she grabbed him by the collar and hauled him over the counter.

“I am _here_ , and I _can_ help, so I _will!_ I don’t know what about doing that is hard for you to understand!” She let him go and he only barely caught himself before he fell to the floor, scrambling away from her. 

“Alright, alright! I’ll go help the militia, you crazy bitch!”

She seemed annoyed at being called a crazy bitch, but handled it better than Alistair did. He, personally, wanted to kick Lloyd’s sexist ass. But he supposed Esfera’s version was probably better. At least this way he wasn’t a _total_ waste of flesh.

Esfera seemed to have a checklist, actually. Get the smith to fix armor for the town. Check. Recruit literally anyone who knew their way around armor and weapons to the militia, whether they wanted to or not. Though the fact that this involved her getting impatient and literally kicking dwarven mercenary Dwyn’s door down showed him just how worried she was for the town. But either way… check. Get a little boy back to his sister in the Chantry. Check. Set up barrels of oil to stem the flow of undead coming down from the mountain. Check. Convince Sten that this _was_ important for stopping the Blight. Check. 

He kind of wished they’d had a chance to get some rest before nighttime, but it was apparently not to be. By the time they finished getting everything in place to Esfera’s satisfaction, the sun was well on its way out of the sky and the Redcliffe militia was starting to get antsy.

Alistair glanced over at Esfera, who was giving directions to the rest of their companions, who should stand where, protect what. Morrigan, no spells where the militiamen are. Zevran, stay at the edges and pick them off as they come down. Shale, smash anything that gets past the barrels, yes that includes pigeons. Wynne, concentrate your healing spells on the villagers; don’t worry about us. At this point I’m not afraid of a tide of undead. Finally she turned back to him with a sigh, her hand on the hilt of her sword, her thumb running nervously over the Cousland crest on the pommel. 

“Do you think we’re ready?” he asked her, gently pulling her hand from her sword.

“All that we could do to help has been done,” she replied, squeezing his palm a bit and biting her lip, staring down the hill at the village.

“Except giving the Templars some tokens of Andraste,” he noted.

She scowled. “Even the Revered Mother thought it would be a lie, a false protection. If Andraste is with them, she is with them. They can ask for no better.”

He chuckled to himself, running his thumb over her hand. “Thank you, Esfera.”

Raising an eyebrow, she looked over at him. “For what?”

He shook his head. “Never mind.”

With the last ray of sunlight fading over the mountain, darkness had fallen. It was time to stand ready. 

He felt as if he was waiting for hours standing on the tip of a pin, every muscle in his body tensed in order to keep his balance. Listening, peering through the darkness, listening for footsteps, for inhuman calls, for the screams of death and the ill feeling of blood magic.

He preferred darkspawn, honestly. At least _those_ he could sense.

A hawk dove from the sky and transformed itself into Morrigan, landing with impressive grace onto the dusty path on Esfera’s other side. “Here they come. In surprising numbers. I fear I must report that the villagers’ descriptions have _not_ been exaggerations.”

Esfera nodded, letting go of Alistair’s hand to grab her shield and unsheath her sword. “Thank you, Morrigan. We will stop them here regardless.”

Morrigan sighed, glancing up the hill toward the coming horde, then nodded. “So we will.”

Alistair almost didn’t see the first one when it arrived. They moved so quietly, their footsteps making hardly enough noise to hear over the crackling of the oil fires. Only when it walked directly into the flame and gurgled with a sound no human throat should make did he realize what was happening, that it had begun. 

More and more appeared through the darkness behind it, creatures with the shape and clothes of men, but… twisted. Wrong. Bodies moving without enough flesh to hold them together. Eyes glinting behind helmet visors despite hollow skulls. So much _wrongness_ . He wondered if he’d known any of these people, if they were the same ones he’d known back when he’d lived in Redcliffe, the ward of Arl Eamon. He didn’t want to think about it. He _really_ didn’t want to think about it.

The first few creatures fell easily to the flash of Zevran’s blades in the darkness, the arrows plunging into rotting carcasses from Leliana’s perch atop the windmill’s roof. But there were more. And more. Weak, easily cut down by their swords, but so _many_ … Shale’s crushing blows sent some of them screeching into the oil flames, but still many came, filling the darkness with their monstrous, gurgling cries.

Starfang glowed a brilliant blue-green as Esfera cut through every undead creature that came near her, its runes reacting to the spirits inhabiting the decaying bodies. As Alistair blocked a blow from a machete with his shield, he quickly reminded himself to thank Bodahn and Sandal Feddic for improving their weapons.

This was good! They were doing it! None of the creatures were even making it to Ser Perth’s men, or Dwyn’s mercenaries! Maybe Esfera had been overprepared. Their little traveling group was an odd collection, true, but there was no denying that they somehow worked together _perfectly_. A perfect swirl of chaos that orbited around Esfera Cousland, pulling every target toward the point of her blade.

“They’re coming from the lake!”

The militiaman that ran up to Esfera now looked panicked, his armor fitting wrong and his helmet askew. Not a man that should be in a battle in the first place, Alistair knew. “My Lady Grey Warden, please, they’re attacking the Chantry!”

Esfera pulled Starfang out of yet another corpse and spun, surveying the gathered forces. “Sten, Shale, your attacks are more useful out here where you won’t be accidentally hitting militiamen! Keep funneling them through the fires toward Ser Perth’s men, please! Leliana, stay where you are; keep picking them off! Everyone else, with me! We have to protect the women and children in the Chantry!”

She took off down the hill, not bothering to sheath her sword. And of course, Alistair followed, mostly because Zevran gave him a _look_ as he raced after her, the kind that meant he was going to beat him to Esfera’s side and would _never_ let him live it down if he did.

And, well, Alistair couldn’t allow that.

The militia was already swarmed by undead by the time they careened down the hill toward the Chantry, frightened soldiers just barely keeping the creatures at bay.

They smashed into the undead forces with all of the momentum gathered from running down the hill as fast as their legs could carry them, scattering most into bones upon impact.

But of course, there were more. He heard a wet cry and saw Lloyd, the bartender, fall, and just shook his head. No real loss there. Oh, that was an _awful_ thing to think, Alistair! Morrigan is _definitely_ wearing off on you. But don’t _ever_ tell her that!

Speaking of Morrigan, the mage seemed to be having so much trouble _not_ setting things on fire that she was clearly getting angry. She was swearing in several languages, at least one of which Alistair was _pretty_ sure was demonic, and then finally gave up on magic and just grabbed the nearest undead creature and flung it to the ground with a sickening _crunch_. It went still, and Morrigan looked down at her hands with surprise.

Emboldened by her success, she snatched the sword from the fallen creature and stabbed the next one, her eyes glowing as she then set the whole thing on fire, from the sword to the body.

 _Oh boy, just what did Esfera release?_ He thought, but quickly had to divert his attention to hurling himself between the town mayor and a line of undead, catching the blows with his shield before they could cut right through the man’s armor. He got a jab in _his_ leg, instead, but Esfera had been right. They were _much_ better equipped than this town militia was, even with all of the preparations they’d made during the day.

Esfera covered for him, knocking down one creature with her shield and cutting off the other one’s head with a slash from Starfang, grabbing a militiaman by the arm and forcing him behind her. Actually, she was _herding_ them, Alistair couldn’t help but notice. Each of her motions, each of her commands to her companions, all keeping the militiamen together, never letting them past the glow of the bonfire in front of the Chantry. She was keeping their actual exposure to the fight to a minimum, not taking even a moment to breathe, to assess the damage and rest her sword arm.

No, it was just wave after wave of grasping hands and gaping mouths, some managing to get through the barricade formed by himself, Esfera, Cookie, Wynne, Zevran, and Morrigan in the shape of a bear. He heard a pained cry and almost fell to despair as he watched a militiaman fall. But then a wave of blue-white light washed over everything, and he felt the sting from the wound in his leg ebb, the ache in his arm from holding up his shield completely wash away.

Wynne! Of course! By the Maker, that woman was helpful!

Esfera spun with her shield, sending the creature that had stabbed the militiaman flying ten feet away into the bonfire, dead long before it even hit the flames.

But it didn’t take long before his arms started to feel tired again. Even Morrigan was starting to run out of magic, the slight glow she’d been keeping up around herself throughout this whole battle beginning to flicker like a candle. They couldn’t keep this up much longer.

And then… it was over.

He didn’t even notice when the tide stopped, so focused he had been on slaying every raging _creature_ that came within a skeletal arm’s reach of the militia. But… just like that, no more undead poured forth from the winding alleyways toward the lake. No more bodies tumbling down the hill. It was over.

Next to him, Esfera fell to her knees, chest heaving. “They’re all alive,” she gasped, yanking off her helmet and staring at the ground. “We saved them. We did it.” She looked up at him, loose hair plastered to her face by sweat. “We did it, right?”

“We did,” he assured her, collapsing into the dirt next to her. “Well… we _did_ lose Lloyd.”

Esfera looked up blearily, noting Lloyd’s well-stabbed body lying not far in front of him. “Ah… so we did. What a pity.”

“Don’t sound so broken up about it.”

She leaned against his shoulder, exhaling a breath. “I’m too tired to mourn, Alistair.”

“How about celebrate?” a voice asked from over their shoulders.

They struggled to their feet, facing Bann Teagan, who was simply _beaming_ at them. “You did it! You absurd, foolish-- you actually saved the town!”

“I have a promise to keep,” Esfera grumbled, glancing away from Teagan to acknowledge the flash of Leliana’s pocket mirror from atop the windmill-- the sign for all-clear. “We have to save Owen’s daughter. Today, if possible.” She gestured toward the east, where the first of the sun’s rays were beginning to spread across the sky.

“Oh no you’re not, young lady,” Wynne demanded, scowling and tapping Esfera’s shaking knees with her staff. “You’re going to get some _rest_ first.”

“Of course!” Teagan urged them. “All of you are _welcome_ to rest in our town or in the tavern until full light. We’ll celebrate the victory in the morning.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He was a bit surprised to find out _just_ how good Esfera was at playing politics when they encountered Isolde the following morning. He, personally, felt _extremely_ uncomfortable around the woman, since she _was_ the one who’d sent him to the Chantry, which he hadn’t liked all that much, but Esfera was all encouraging smiles and sympathetic frowns as Isolde begged Bann Teagan not to attack the castle, but rather to come back with her, to save Connor, who refused to escape.

She _also_ dealt with Isolde’s visceral “Who is this _woman,_ Teagan?!” just because she’d asked for a few more details than Isolde was offering with a stunning amount of grace. He’d tried to intercede, as at least a familiar face, but he was pretty sure he made it worse. Only Teagan mentioning that all of Redcliffe owed the Grey Wardens their lives made Isolde back off. When finally she’d convinced Teagan to go back to the castle with her and he had given Esfera his family ring to access the secret passage in the windmill did Esfera turn back to Alistair, scowling.

“Lying Orlesian bitch,” she muttered, clutching the ring in her fist.

“Woah!” He hadn’t heard such profanity from Esfera outside of combat before. “And it seemed like you were playing so nice!”

She scowled, stuffing the ring into her pocket. “Politics. Grey Warden or not, I’m still the daughter of the Teyrn of Highever. And if we want Eamon’s help, I can’t see how making an enemy of his wife is a good idea. But there’s a lot she’s not telling us, even if I’d trusted her from the beginning. And I’ll bet those lies cost Redcliffe a lot of lives. Lives we _could_ be using to support our army against the Blight,” she added before Sten could complain. “And may have just cost Bann Teagan his.” She shook her head, looking up at the castle again. “Let’s go. Not everyone, though. If Isolde was telling the truth about anything, it’s that an invasion of any significant scale could put Arl Eamon _and_ his son in danger. We can’t have that. Alistair, you’re the only one who knows Eamon personally, so…”

“I’m right behind you.”

She smiled, turning back to the rest of the group. “Leliana, Wynne, you’re both relatively good at the political game, so you’re with me, too. Everyone else, make your way to the castle’s main gate with Ser Perth’s men and wait for us to open the way. We may need your help to take the courtyard once we manage to get inside. But otherwise, what you do while you wait is up to you-- you can take a nap, kill poor innocent fowl-- whatever makes you happiest. Just be ready to act once that gate comes open.”

The group split, and Esfera ran her thumb over the hilt of her sword again. “Highever would have stood with Redcliffe, I’m sure of it. If Howe hadn’t betrayed us… there’s no way Loghain would have had the strength to stand against the Bannorn, like Bodahn has been telling us.” She kicked at the dirt, then spun on her heel toward the windmill. “Redcliffe would not have been in this state in the first place if my family had been able to help, and Loghain knew it.”

“Esfera, it wasn’t your fault,” he insisted, laying a hand on her shoulder.

“I know it wasn’t my _fault_ ,” she snapped, throwing open the windmill’s door. “It is just frustrating to have so many things out of my control, that I must struggle against chaos while Loghain _thrives_ on it.” She paused in front of the stack of crates concealing the secret passage and took a deep breath, closing her eyes. “Bann Teagan told me to prioritize Eamon, that the lives of no one else in that castle, not even himself, matter. I don’t want to accept that. If I am all that is left of Highever, then Highever shall come.”

She kicked the crates away and held Teagan’s key to the passage door, listening for the click and lifting it open. “If there are lives to save in this castle, then we shall save them.”

~~~~~~~Esfera~~~~~~~~~~

She _almost_ took back those words immediately upon getting into the castle through its dungeon and finding the blood mage who had poisoned Eamon in the first place, especially once she found out that Loghain had been the one to send him… even _before_ the battle of Ostagar.

“Do you _realize_ how many lives have been lost because of you?!” she yelled, just barely held back by Wynne’s grip on her arm.

“No, no! I poisoned Eamon, that is true, but the undead army was _not_ my doing! I’ve tried explaining this to the Arlessa, but she just won’t hear me! And she was the one who hired me to tutor her son in the first place!”

Wynne, gently tugging Esfera away from Jowan’s cell, stepped forward, taking over the interrogation. Accepting that Wynne, as a senior enchanter, was much more likely to get quality information from an exiled Circle mage than she was, especially when she was angry, gladly stepped behind, but made sure that Jowan could still see her glowering at him any time he peeked nervously away from Wynne.

When finally the enchanter turned back to her, she revealed what Esfera had long started to suspect: Jowan had been caught doing blood magic in the Circle and had been set to become Tranquil, had he not escaped. Subsequently, Isolde hired him to tutor her son, Connor, in secret, so that he would not be taken away to the Tower.

Esfera grimaced. “This boy is… what, eight years old now?” She’d vaguely remembered her mother gossiping with another Arlessa about the Guerrins’ healthy young son. _The same age as Oren! Perhaps they'll become great friends!_ Esfera's mother had once said. But Oren, Esfera's nephew, was no longer able to form friendships, she remembered with a stab of grief.

Wynne nodded solemnly. “Most mages manifest their magic much earlier than this age. Which means that the only training poor Connor has had came from a Blood mage, and that only recently.”

“And an untrained mage is just as frightening as the Templars believe them to be,” Esfera finished, closing her eyes and sighing. “I don’t like this.”

“What will you do?” Wynne asked, glancing back at Jowan.

Straightening, Esfera glared at Jowan, tapping her sword pensively. “Stay in your cell for now. You’re safer there than anywhere else, to be quite honest.” She looked out toward the exit from the dungeon, sighing. “As for everything else… we’ll just have to take it as it comes.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She was relieved when she found Owen’s daughter, sending her off back through the secret passage and back to her father. She was less relieved when they emerged from the basement to a courtyard full of shambling corpses and a Maker-forsaken _revenant_ , but that was dealt with relatively easily by sending Leliana running to open the gate and let in their companions and Ser Perth’s men while she and Alistair kept the revenant busy. With the numbers disadvantage balanced out, she met Alistair’s gaze and took off toward the castle doors as soon as the revenant fell.

She didn’t like what they found inside. They weren’t _surprised_ to hear Connor’s demon-possessed voice, to see Bann Teagan dancing like a court Fool, his eyes completely lightless, but she didn’t have to _like_ it. She didn’t have to _like_ cutting down Teagan’s guards just to knock some sense back into the Bann (quite literally. She hit him with her shield so hard she was afraid she’d killed him. She was glad she’d brought Wynne along).

But now Connor had run further into the castle, they still hadn’t dealt with the desire demon that had caused all of this, _and_ Arl Eamon was still unable to wake. And now she had to deal with Isolde, too.

“ _Please,_ don’t kill my son!” Isolde begged, clinging to Esfera’s sleeve.

Esfera fought the urge to shake her off, instead glancing at Wynne and then patting the woman’s shoulders encouragingly. “Perhaps the mage that started this can present us with another option. No one wants to kill an innocent boy. No one in this room, at least.” _Not including some of those out in the courtyard._

They fetched for Jowan, who responded to his guards passively, still shrinking under Esfera’s glare and Wynne’s pursed lips. He proposed a way to save Connor’s life and also repel the demon… _if_ he used blood magic. Enough to claim another person’s life.

Isolde immediately volunteered, but Esfera put her foot down. “ _No_. I’m not about to let some mage who _did_ poison the Arl in the first place use _blood magic!”_

“But there’s no other way! Not without _several_ mages and a great deal of lyrium, which we don’t _have_ right now!”

Esfera bit her lip, hard enough that she could taste the metallic salt of blood in her mouth. If she let the desire demon remain in Connor, the events of the previous night would only play out again, and Redcliffe could not repel another assault like that.

“Wait… you said that someone _could_ go into the Fade to destroy the demon without endangering Connor if they had enough lyrium, right?” she asked, her tired mind beginning to work again.

“Yes, but… we don’t have that kind of lyrium supply,” Teagan argued, wringing his hands.

“But the Circle _does_ ,” Esfera argued. “I can get them to help! Does Redcliffe have horses we can use?!”

Teagan blinked. “Yes… Master Dennet keeps a small stable on the outer edge of town.”

Esfera nodded. “Good. We’ll get there three times faster on horseback than on foot.” Smiling at Isolde, she affirmed her promise. “We will save Connor’s life, Arlessa. There has been enough sacrifice here. I will allow no more.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Are you sure about this?” Alistair asked, leaning against the stable wall as she tightened the saddle on the Ferelden Forder she was planning to mount. “Just taking Leliana and Zevran… not wearing your armor… I know why you’re doing it, but… just think of the _risk_ …”

Esfera smiled, turning away from the horse to cup his face in her hand. “No more risk than letting a blood mage get his hands on a human life.” She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his. “And I need you here. To help keep the people calm and repel another attack from the castle if Teagan is not able to keep Connor’s demon at bay.”

He sighed. “They’d feel safer if it was _you_ …”

“No they wouldn’t. They _know_ you. You don’t realize how powerful that is. And I need to be there to ensure Irving keeps his promise. They owe me a debt, after all.”

“I _know_ , I just… hate watching you leave.”

She kissed him, breathing deeply to imprint the taste of mint on his lips, smiling even as she let go. “I will return as quickly as possible, my love.”

She stepped back to her horse, hoisting herself onto its back and looking down at him again, fighting back a laugh at his stunned expression. But there was no time for more goodbyes. She flicked the reins and the horse exploded from the stable, cantering rapidly through the fields and hills of Redcliffe, north toward Kinloch Hold.

~~~~~~~Alistair~~~~~~~~~

_My love._

He was blushing like an idiot, he knew it, but what other reaction could he _have?!_ Sure, Esfera had probably just said it unthinkingly, a little pet name, nothing to panic about. She’d kissed him, after all. But to _hear_ it was… wow. If he heard that too many times he feared his heart would explode.

 _My love_. He almost started giggling, had he not immediately seen Morrigan glowering at him from the entrance to the stable.

“ _What?!”_ he asked defensively.

She only rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe she _actually_ fell for this idiot,” she grumbled as she walked away, as if he couldn’t clearly hear her.

“Hey! I can be incredibly charming, you know!”

“Oh really? Have dozens of women _swooning_ at your feet, do you?”

“Well, no, but… I’ve got the only one that matters, don’t I?”

At this, Morrigan hesitated, her yellow eyes narrowing. “I _suppose_ that is true.”

“Aha! I’ve won an argument against the nasty witch!”

Rolling her eyes, Morrigan turned back to him, glancing at him from head to toe, then turned back to the path toward Redcliffe proper. “You’ve a spray of ichor on your armor in a _distinctive_ phallic shape.”

“I-- what?!” He stared down at the breastplate of his armor and then quickly grabbed his handkerchief to wipe it off. “ _You’re_ the one who noticed, you filthy-minded witch!”

~~~~

Of course, with Esfera gone, it was up to him to handle damage control. Thankfully, he didn’t have to worry about _stealing_ so much, both rogues having gone with Esfera (They were the lightest, and therefore likely to be fastest on horseback, she’d explained), but the others were plenty chaos on their own.

First he had to convince Shale _not_ to stomp every chicken in the town, since the townsfolk needed to _eat_ those. They were not particularly convinced, and he wondered how in the world Esfera got the golem to listen to her. Bribes? Was it bribes? Actually, he was fairly sure it had something to do with tactfully letting them do whatever they wanted. But since he couldn’t really do _that_ … bribes it was.

He remembered Esfera mentioning something about the crystals in Shale’s skin being decorative as well as useful, and subsequently that Lloyd had been selling them in his shop before his _untimely_ death. When he returned to the tavern to ask them from Bella, the new tavern owner only shook her head. “Just take it. We owe you and your friends that much.”

Well, good. He found a nice purple one and offered it up to Shale if they would _please_ just stop killing chickens. Thankfully, they agreed, saying that the crystals were _quite_ slimming, and he was not _quite_ so unpleasant a thing as they’d initially thought. Which he was pretty sure was a compliment.

Then he had to deal with Sten, who was still trying to decide whether saving Redcliffe had anything to do with defeating the Blight, mostly because the townsfolk were increasingly pestering him with questions, young children trying to hang off of his legs.

“Well, what did Esfera tell you?” Alistair asked, already exhausted. 

“That the Archdemon will never expect us to go so far north that we attack its rear from the south.”

Alistair snorted, then buried his laughter in his sleeve. “Ah, well… she’s right. It… definitely wouldn’t expect that.”

“And the time we have wasted here… this is useful, also?”

This, Alistair winced at. “I wouldn’t say _wasted_ …”

Sten merely stared at him blankly, so he just sighed. “Okay, I know you’re not super concerned about human lives. It’s all a big political move so we can convince people to lay down their lives to fight the Blight. And before you say that _all_ Qunari would have fought without needing convincing, I _know_. Us humans can be _really_ frustrating sometimes, huh?”

Sten crossed his arms, his expression unreadable as ever. “Although I do not like your tone… yes, humans are frustrating. I will ask the other Grey Warden when he returns.”

 _He_. Well, better to not press his luck. As long as it got Sten back to the castle and out of sight of the townchildren desperate to inspire him to murder, Alistair counted it a success.

He’d been slightly worried about Morrigan, but she actually seemed content to just… sit in a chair outside the mayor’s house and… read. Silently. The fact that she was reading the grimoire of _The Witch of the Wilds_ was a bit unpleasant, but… he wasn’t going to press his luck. Arguing with her seemed more likely to cause problems than just leaving her be.

He helped the townspeople carry corpses to the bonfire to keep them from coming to life again, then headed back to the castle himself, his footsteps heavy.

He heard panting and looked down to see Esfera’s Mabari keeping pace with him, his tongue lolling out pleasantly.

“Decided you don’t hate me, have you?” he asked, rubbing the dog’s head.

Cookie barked, still walking beside him.

“You’re supposed to be guarding the castle, you know, you naughty dog.”

Cookie barked again, then ran ahead, sitting down right in front of the gate and practically grinning down the road at Alistair.

“Oh you-- you can’t just be obedient when you _want_ to be!” He ran to catch up to the dog, who pretended to stay as still as a statue, not even looking up at Alistair when he walked past him.

“Even the _dog_ only listens to Esfera…” he grumbled to himself, shaking his head.

The situation inside the castle was much the same as he’d left it, Wynne assured him, her hands on her hips. Fortunately, based on the staff roster that Isolde had provided, there were no more corpses available with which Connor’s demon could assault the town. Unfortunately, this meant that just about all of the staff that had _been_ in the castle were now dead. 

“It just keeps getting better, doesn’t it?” he asked, running his hand through his hair and resisting the urge to tear it out.

“If you would like some good news, Irving has sent a bird ahead of our fearless leader’s arrival at the Circle. He says they will be much slower, since they do not have enough horses to carry the mages and lyrium necessary to perform Jowan’s ritual, but they are coming soon.” She held up a small slip of paper, regarding him with an unreadable expression. “You are more worried than usual, young man.”

“I know, I _know_ she’ll be fine, it’s just… being back here doesn’t inspire a _lot_ of pleasant memories, alright? And then I think, hey, Eamon is on his deathbed and all you can think of is yourself, Alistair? Maybe you _did_ deserve to sleep in a dog kennel and get sent to the Chantry, you ungrateful twat…”

He was so absorbed in his distress that he didn’t notice Wynne lift her staff, then bring it down against his skull with a solid _whack!_

“OW! What was that for?!”

“You think too little of yourself, dear boy. If your memories are truly so unpleasant, then that you are here at all speaks to your ability to _face_ them, not run from them. And you cannot tell me that you are only here because Esfera asked you to be here, not when we both know that, had you asked it, she would never have forced you to come. No, Alistair, you are here to _help_ , of your own free will.”

Alistair rubbed his head, his eyes watering from the pain. “Okay, okay! I get it! Please don’t hit me again.”

Wynne smiled, seemingly satisfied at his response, and returned her staff to its perch through the loops on her pack. “You feel as though you are failing as a leader without Esfera, but you are doing well. Better even than I expected.”

He winced, looking up toward the spires of the castle. “I never wanted to be a leader.”

~~~~~~~~Esfera~~~~~~~~~

The ritual worked. She probably wore a hole in the floor from pacing as she waited for Wynne to wake up from her trip to the Fade, but it worked. The demon was defeated and neither Connor nor Isolde needed to die.

Her relief was short-lived, though. The castle was retaken and Redcliffe was safe, but they could not secure Redcliffe’s aid against the Blight until Eamon awoke, and he didn’t appear to be waking up any time soon.

Isolde insisted that he could be saved by the Urn of Sacred Ashes, but Esfera was getting a bit tired of listening to the woman. This whole situation could have been a lot less disastrous if she’d reacted differently. And this was the same woman so paranoid about her husband’s past that she’d sent Alistair away to a Chantry to live. Esfera generally considered herself a patient woman, but her patience was wearing thin.

But Isolde was only a mortal woman, Esfera reminded herself, and had been making decisions out of fear for her son’s life and future.

After agreeing to go find the ashes, Esfera stayed with Wynne in the main hall, watching Connor return to his room. “Wynne… what _does_ happen to children who aren’t properly trained in magic?”

“Never anything good, I’m afraid,” Wynne answered sadly. “Many, like Connor, fall prey to demons. If not that, they fail to control their powers, causing destruction either to themselves or others. And often when they do… well, we don’t see many untrained mages who survive to adulthood, do we?”

“Ah.”

Wynne laid a hand on her shoulder, smiling sympathetically. “I know your relationship with the institution of the Circle is… tenuous, but it is truly a better alternative for young Connor than remaining untrained.”

“I know. And it’s also better than letting him die.”

She wanted to say something else, but just then the doors to the main hall flew open and Morrigan strode toward her, clutching her mother’s grimoire.

“May we speak privately, please?” she asked, only a moment’s glance at Wynne.

“Uhhhh, sure,” Esfera replied, following her to the room they kept in Redcliffe castle. She shut the door behind them, wondering what could have possibly distressed _Morrigan_ enough to make her act this way. “What’s wrong, Morrigan?”

“I have been studying Mother’s grimoire. Do you wish to hear what I have found?”

“Of course!”

“Your excitement is appreciated, but unpleasant at the moment.”

“O-oh. Sorry?”

“Nevermind.” She explained that she had expected to find a collection of Flemeth’s spells, but found something else-- how Flemeth had survived throughout these many centuries. And that in order to do so, she planned on taking Morrigan’s body, just like all of the Witches of the Wilds throughout the years.

If it had been anyone else, Esfera would have thought it all just a bit too far-fetched, too unpleasant to believe, but actually, it made perfect sense, considering all she had come to know about Flemeth. And Morrigan’s distress seemed completely genuine.

“So… what do you want to do?”

“There is only one possible response to this. Flemeth needs to die.”

“WHAT?!”

“And what else should I do? Wait for her to simply appear from the mists and claim my body as her own? Unless that is what you _wish_ to happen?”

“I-- no, no, Morrigan, of course I don’t want that. It’s just…”

“You are still thinking of her as a harmless old woman. Perhaps if you remembered her history, a history of which I am personally acquainted? Flemeth has taken countless lives over her long lifetime, not only her daughters’, but those of men, human and elven, chaste and criminal. Kill Flemeth, and you are _saving_ lives, my friend. Though I dare say _my_ life should be valuable enough to merit interference.”

Esfera closed her eyes, sitting down on the bed, processing everything Morrigan was asking her to do. “So I go and kill Flemeth. Without you, so she can’t possess you right there.”

“Yes. And retrieve her true grimoire, filled with the secrets she has long hidden from me.”

Thinking for a long, long time, Esfera finally opened her eyes and nodded. “Alright. Not now, because we have to save the Arl, but once he is safe… I will do it, I promise.”

As soon as the words were out she could see the tension melt from Morrigan’s body. “I can expect nothing better. So I suppose… thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Esfera sighed. “Something tells me that slaying Flemeth will not be so simple as assassinating an old woman.”

Morrigan chuckled. “Oh, you can be sure of _that_.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She was glad for the Redcliffe horses-- which Master Dennet assured her were on _loan_ and she’d better return them in good condition-- because they made their journey all the way back to Denerim in order to find the Brother Genitivi much, _much_ faster. 

She didn’t like being so close to Loghain’s forces, but it was necessary. She didn’t know how long Eamon had to live, and she couldn’t afford to _not_ have his aid. According to the word she’d received from the mages and Dalish beginning to assemble against the Blight, the struggle for power in the Bannorn only meant that the Blight was spreading north at unprecedented rates.

She didn’t dare hire a room in Denerim, not when there were posters in the city requesting any able-bodied men and women to sign up to hunt Wardens. She kept her party at a minimum in the city, talking to few and keeping as low a profile as a woman in a full set of enchanted armor with a glowing starmetal sword could possibly keep.

Before she could go to Genitivi, however, there was a small matter of dealing with the assassins hunting after Leliana, apparently sent by her betrayer, the bardmaster Marjolaine. A contact in Denerim, the leader who’d attacked them had said. And who did they find but Marjolaine herself!

The woman _did_ have a sweet voice, Esfera acknowledged. And she _was_ beautiful. But she very much disliked the infantilizing way she talked to Leliana. Like she was a lost puppy that, with the promises of a few kisses, would return with its tail wagging. But that wasn’t the case. Leliana had moved on; her choices were her own, and not Marjolaine nor Esfera could make them for her. She fought against the Blight now.

But when she said as much, Marjolaine only laughed. “Oh? Is that what you think? If I were you, I would believe nothing she says. She _will_ use you. You look at her and see a friend, trusting and warm. It is an act.”

Leliana’s face twisted in disgust. “I am not _you_ , Marjolaine. I left because I didn’t want to _become_ you.”

Marjolaine dug into her insistence, like Leliana somehow _belonged_ to her because she’d made her who she was. But that wasn’t true.

“You speak as though I cannot tell the difference between a lie and the truth,” Esfera interrupted, her eyes narrowing. “I trust Leliana because she has given me no reason not to. _You_ , on the other hand, fully admit to turning on her _and_ sent assassins after us. Regardless of her past, the Leliana I know has proven herself time and again to be good and true. Sometimes more so than I myself.”

“Thank you,” Leliana replied, though her voice faltered a bit. “You will not threaten my friends again, Marjolaine. I want you out of my life. Forever.”

She laid a hand on her bow, but Esfera stopped her, pulling her hand away and shaking her head. “Leliana has moved on, Marjolaine. People can change. So can you.”

Marjolaine laughed in disbelief. “You think the Game is something you can just _leave?!_ You are more foolish than I can imagine! As if goodness is something you achieve just by trying! But I _know_ you, Lady Cousland. Your noble heart will fall soon enough. I can personally assure it.”

Esfera just smiled. “Oh, Marjolaine, I think you’ll find I have an _excellent_ record of repelling assassins. I am not afraid of making an enemy of one more.”

“It’s true; I would believe her if I were you,” Zevran piped up, leaning against the doorframe behind her and cleaning under his nails with the tip of his dagger.

Finally Marjolaine relented, grabbing her belongings, her cohort of men, and fleeing out the door, sending one last, pleading look back at Leliana, one she didn’t get in return.

Once she was gone, Leliana nearly collapsed into Esfera, burying her face in the other woman’s armor. “It’s… over. She’s really gone.”

“I promise, she will be.”

After a long moment of deep breathing, Leliana nodded, gathering her wits and straightening. “Thank you, Esfera. I had thought… I would only feel at peace once Marjolaine was dead, but… this feels _much_ better.”

Esfera smiled, taking both of her hands in her own and nodding for Zevran to take Cookie and continue searching for Brother Genitivi. “If she died, it would only prove that the path you took back in Orlais was unbending. That you, just like Marjolaine, could be redeemed only in death. I couldn’t let you think such things. You _are_ your own person, Leliana. A true friend.”

Leliana pulled her hand out of Esfera’s grip to wipe her eyes, then nodded. “You are right. Life is… precious, and death cannot always be the first choice of the hand. Necessary sometimes, but never the first choice.”

Esfera nodded. “Never the first choice.”

“Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, you are… a _true_ friend. I… will need some time to think. I will talk to you when you return to camp, if that is alright.”

“Of course! You have all of the time you need,” Esfera promised.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She did indeed have plenty of time, because although Brother Genitivi’s _home_ was not all that hard to find, the actual _man_ was gone, and his “assistant,” the so-called “Weylon,” did NOT like Esfera pointing out the inconsistencies in his stories about the status of Brother Genitivi’s search. So much so that he attacked them. When he was dead, and they found the body of the REAL Weylon, Esfera couldn’t help but feel sick to her stomach.

“There is something much _bigger_ than one Chantry scholar going on here,” she grumbled, wiping the blood off of her sword with her handkerchief and then sliding it back in its sheath. “I even tried just to suppress him, but I think he _wanted_ to die. As if that was preferable to returning to whoever sent him after having been caught lying.”

“And we’re going to follow this bloody trail, no?” Zevran asked.

Esfera grinned, lifting a tattered research journal into the air. “We’re going to follow the bloody trail. Right to a village called ‘Haven’.”

“Ah yes, I always love walking into obvious traps. This seems to be your distinct mode of operations, my friend.”

“Yes, well… sneaking takes time we don’t have.”

“Only because you are not properly trained in sneaking.”

“Okay, tell you what: _You_ try to sneak into the village, and _I’ll_ walk right through the front door.”

“Ah, _now_ you are learning how to properly take advantage of an assassin!”

Esfera snorted, holding open the door for him. “I don’t keep you around for your pretty face, Zev.”

He paused, raising an eyebrow at her, then smiled. “But you _do_ think I have a pretty face. I shall have to remember that.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It went pretty much just like that.

Walking right into Haven, that is. She _did_ let Zevran sneak in, resulting in her finding out some information from the townsfolk she didn’t particularly like. Especially the part where she found a bloodstained altar and first, Zevran pointed out that it was very similar to a ritual the Crows did to give them unnatural abilities at dealing death, and Morrigan noted cheerfully that it was _definitely_ human blood, and so much of it that nothing could have given that much blood and survived the giving of it.

“Ah, well,” Esfera grimaced, turning quickly away from the bloody altar. “Glad I brought the experts.”

And if Esfera had a problem with the _Chantry_ , she certainly despised basically everything in Haven. Human sacrifice, lies, secrecy, imprisonment and torture… it was as if the village had searched her mind for the things she found the most ultimately unpleasant and tossed them all into a stewpot and served it, bubbling and murky, directly back to her.

She didn’t like having to bring a starved, injured, helpless Genitivi along with her to the Temple, just because he _wanted_ to, and _then_ have to leave him by himself, but he was persistent and she didn’t want to force him to do anything against his will.

She didn’t like the Ash wraiths inside the temple.

She didn’t like the _dragons_ inside the temple.

She didn’t like the puzzles and keys and traps inside the temple.

She didn’t like wandering through a maze of tunnels deeper and deeper into the mountains only to find dragon _eggs_.

She _definitely_ didn’t like finding out that the dragon responsible for said eggs was being worshipped, not only as a goddess, but as _Andraste herself_.

The way Father Kolgrim, the leader of Haven’s forces inside the tunnels, talked, it was as if he _really_ believed that Andraste was alive. But they needn’t fight, Esfera assured both him and herself. She did not care about worshipping a dragon. That wasn’t even a lie-- she really, _really_ didn’t. It was a powerful beast, and clearly an intelligent one. If they wanted to worship it, then fine. She didn’t even care that they believed the dragon was Andraste reincarnated-- there was, after all, no proof that it was _not_ true. What she _did_ care about was that their worship had led them to murder dozens of people over the years. Many of them Redcliffe knights. Knights who _could_ have been defending the village.

But she didn’t say most of those things. She wanted to, but the almost imperceptible shake of Leliana’s head convinced her to keep her mouth shut and keep smiling. Not _lie_ exactly, just… not say the whole truth.

Which led to Kolgrim’s suggestion-- to prove her approval of their faith, she should pour a vial of “Andraste’s” blood directly into the Urn of Sacred Ashes.

“I’m not doing that,” she finally answered firmly.

“Then you have lied! You deny our faith, our _true_ Lady!”

“I don’t care _who_ your goddess is. This isn’t about _me!_ That Urn _means_ something to thousands of people all across Thedas! I will not pollute one religion to acquiesce to another! I won’t do it!”

She didn’t like fighting a room full of assassins.

She didn’t like fighting a room full of _angry_ assassins.

She didn’t like cowering in terror from a High Dragon apparently named Andraste.

She didn’t like finding an apparently immortal Guardian who could somehow look through the regrets of herself and her companions and question them on it.

“You abandoned your father and mother, leaving them in the hands of Rendon Howe, knowing that he would show no mercy.”

“How do you know that?” she asked, a stab of pain running through her heart. No one knew exactly how her parents died. No one except her, Duncan, and possibly Howe himself. She severely doubted that Howe had made it far enough through Haven to tell the Guardian these things. And Duncan was dead.

“Your path is laid out before me and plain to see-- in the lines of your face and in the scars on your heart.”

“She does _not_ have lines on her face,” Alistair piped up, and she fought the urge to laugh.

But the Guardian seemed not to hear him. “Do you believe you failed your parents?”

Esfera closed her eyes, immediately seeing her father, holding his organs inside of his chest as she begged him to try, _try_ to come with her, to escape through the servants’ passage. She saw her mother, more gray in her hair than orange, drawing her bow and planting herself in front of the secret door, insisting that she would let none of Howe’s men touch Esfera’s father while she still drew breath. She saw the fires all around her, smelled the burning flesh, heard the screams of unarmed servants. But more than anything, she heard her father’s voice:

 _Go, Pup. You_ must _go! You must survive, must hold the truth in your heart and tell it to the king! But none of it will matter if you do not GO! NOW!_

She opened her eyes, drawing a shaky breath. “I was not strong enough back then to save them. If I had stayed behind, I would only have died alongside them. I know that now. And maybe that would have changed nothing-- maybe some other Grey Warden would have gone to the Tower of Ishal with Alistair, survived the Battle of Ostagar and gone on to face the Blight-- but none of that matters, because the last wish of my parents was that I survive. I regret that I was not as strong then as I am now, if that’s what you want to know. Perhaps the Esfera that stands before you _now_ could have destroyed all of Howe’s men, freed Highever from invasion, and saved my parents’ lives. But I would not _be_ the Esfera I am now without that failure, without that regret. I wish… I wish it had not happened. But it did. I cannot change it now.”

Slowly, the Guardian nodded, an odd expression on his ethereal face. “Thank you. That is all I wished to know.”

Alistair laced his fingers through hers. “You are too hard on yourself. No one’s perfect.”

She squeezed his hand, but noted Leliana looking at her oddly before the Guardian turned immediately to him.

“Alistair, knight and Warden… you wonder if things would have been different if you were with Duncan on the battlefield. You could have shielded him from the killing blow. You wonder, don’t you? If you should have died, and not him?”

“I… I do _wonder_ , yes,” he answered, his grip on Esfera’s hand tightening. “That everything would be _better_ if I did. Someone with more answers, more training, more _Duncan_ had lived… yes, I think that.”

Esfera was surprised. Also surprised at the Guardian telling Leliana that the Maker only spoke to Andraste, and her vision was a lie she told for attention, though she insisted it was true. And Wynne, wondering if her “wisdom” was only the teachings of the Chantry and the Circle that she had internalized and accepted as truth.

None of them liked these questions.

But when the door opened and she saw her father waiting for her just beyond, the ache in her heart grew unbearable. Even though she _knew_ it wasn’t real, that it was a part of a test… he was so _close_ , every bit as strong and proud as she remembered him to be… the pain was nothing she could tolerate.

“My dearest child,” he said, his voice distant, nothing but an echo among empty, cobwebbed halls. “You know that I am gone, and all your prayers and wishes will not bring me back. No more must you grieve, my daughter. You must take the pain and guilt, acknowledge it, and let go. It is time.”

Esfera blinked tears away and shook her head. “I stopped praying a long time ago, Father.”

But he didn’t hear. He just spoke a few more words and faded away, leaving nothing but an amulet bearing a flickering memory in her hands.

She didn’t like answering riddles, even though she knew most of the answers. Not when she knew those answers only due to the efforts of a woman who was probably dead. 

She didn’t like killing Alistair. Or Leliana, or Wynne.

Even shadow versions of themselves, with no light their eyes, no mirth behind their smiles, her heart stung when she struck them down. Like against like was no way to survive, not when _they_ were flesh and bone but their counterparts were spun of shadow and memory. But if the shadow-Alistair attacked the real Leliana, she would surely fall.

First she killed the shadow-Wynne, remembering her fixing holes in Alistair’s shirts with a disapproving scowl or arguing with Shale about being called the “elder mage.” But it was _necessary_ to kill her first, lest her spells keep all the other shadow-selves alive.

And then she had to stop Shadow-Alistair from attacking Wynne and Leliana while they focused their spells and arrows on the two shadow-warriors. This was not her Alistair, she knew. It may have had his shape, had the curve of his cheeks and the outline of his stubble, but it could not match the brown of his eyes, the shape of his smile, the feeling of his hands. She drove Starfang through its chest and watched it fade into nothing, but she did feel _something_ as it faded away. Not remorse, certainly. But an unpleasant twisting in her gut, an uncomfortable bend in her wrist. As if her body itself was telling her that it was nothing that should be done to Alistair. That she would never do it to him truly.

It was Alistair that dispatched shadow-Leliana, but no matter what they all did, it was shadow-Esfera that remained standing. She’d never _really_ appreciated her ability to take hit after hit and stay standing, not until that battle, but _now_ , now she understood how frustrated her enemies must feel. Rather than feeling frightened, she felt… powerful. Indestructible. Since it took all four of them working together to take her shadow-self down, sending it back into the Fade from which it had been summoned.

She didn’t like the _puzzle_ , deciding who should stand in what place to summon blocks into being so that they could eventually cross.

And then there was finally the fire through which she could _see_ the Urn, and thought that perhaps she _could_ just walk right through the curtain of flame-- if she did it fast enough she probably wouldn’t even get burned that much. But that assumed the fire was _normal_. And even if it was… she doubted that was the way to pass a test of faith. So instead she read the inscription carved into the altar just before the flames aloud to her companions.

“Cast off the trappings of mortal life and cloak yourself in the goodness of spirit. King and slave, lord and beggar; be born again in the Maker’s light.”

She sighed. Another riddle. “So, Leliana, what do… you… Leliana?”

But she was only staring in awe at the thing before them, the thing they had struggled so hard to reach, waiting for them just beyond the flames. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

Esfera looked again at the inscription and grimaced. “Bloody Andrastian cults,” she muttered under her breath, lifting off her helmet and tossing it to the ground, then following it with her gauntlets. She noticed Alistair staring at her, confused, and pointed at the altar. “Cloak yourself in the goodness of spirit.” she grumbled. “You know… ‘off with the armor, then’.”

His face rapidly reddened and he quickly looked away. “Oh. _Oh_. I, ah, well…” he nudged Leliana, pointing at the altar. “I’m suddenly actively thinking about being the only _man_ you brought along on this mission and I’m trying to assure you I’m thinking _only_ the purest of thoughts in this holiest of Temples. But, um, well… I think we have to take off our clothes to get to the Urn. Or so says our fearless leader.” He pointed toward Esfera, who was struggling with untying her shoulderplates, then quickly looked away, his ears pink.

Esfera rolled her eyes, patting him on the shoulder. “We’ll need each other’s help removing our armor, first. You can start diverting your eyes when we take off our clothes.”

“Right!” he answered, his voice three times as high pitched as normal.

Once all pieces of armor were discarded onto the floor, Esfera reached her hand toward the flames, experimentally, then pulled back, her skin still stinging. “Curses!”

Annoyed, she grabbed the laces on the front of her gambeson shirt and yanked them loose, pulling it open and discarding it on the floor. She could feel her cheeks heating up, but she couldn’t think about it. She couldn’t think about the intimate situation she was suddenly forced into. She’d shared baths with Leliana and Wynne, but it _was_ odd in front of Alistair.

When they were all standing in their smallclothes and trying not to look at each other, Esfera hurried through the flames, grateful that they seemed to accept the slight amount of clothes she _was_ wearing. They died, and the Guardian appeared in front of her, delighted that she’d passed, regaling them with the truth of their honor, of their worthiness of Andraste’s healing.

“A man is dying, Guardian,” she reminded him. “And I have just spent half an hour taking my armor off only to spend a half hour putting it back on. Your trials are poorly planned,” she grumbled, quickly grabbing her shirt and trousers from the floor and sliding them back on, grateful at least that she would not have to recover Andraste’s ashes in only her smallclothes.

And then the Guardian was gone, and all that was left was to retrieve the ashes. As Wynne helped re-buckle her shoulder guards back on, Esfera looked over at Leliana. “Would you like to do the honors, dear Sister?”

Leliana looked as if she’d been struck by lightning. “Me? But _you_ are the honorable one, the one who brought us here, guided us through the trials…”

Esfera patted her back, holding out Leliana’s drakeskin armor dress, made specifically for her in Denerim. “All of this was intended to be a test of faith, not honor. I have no love for the Chantry, but Andraste herself should be worthy of _anyone’s_ respect. But what I bring is respect. What _you_ bring is love. Alistair and I are not here for love of Andraste. We are here to save Arl Eamon.” She paused. “And Wynne is here to save _us_.”

“Ah, I was wondering if you would leave me out entirely.”

Leliana slid the main part of her armor back on, securing it around herself, then slowly nodded, pulling a tiny leather pouch from her pack. “I… alright. Thank you, Esfera. Truly, I cannot… _begin_ to express to you… to be the first one to look upon her in _decades!_ It is beyond imagining!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Leliana fell into step with her as they made their way back down the mountain toward Haven, clutching the pouch of Andraste’s ashes in her hand but pulling at the string in annoyance. Esfera noted her uncharacteristic irritation and slowed, letting Alistair and Wynne’s conversation about a dirty sock that had apparently found its way into Wynne’s pack drift further ahead of them.

Once they were sufficiently far ahead, Leliana stated, matter-of-factly, but with an unmissable undertone, “You love Alistair.”

“Huh?”

“You cannot possibly feign ignorance. I’d have to be blind, deaf, and buried ten weeks underground not to notice. But you’ve said such things to me! Were they lies? Were you playing with my feelings?”

Esfera stopped cold, listening to footsteps recede in the distance. “Leliana… I have _never_ lied to you. I don’t believe I’d succeed even if I tried.”

“So you are playing with both of us then?!”

“What?! NO!” she pulled her helmet off and ran her hands through her braid, trying to make sense of her thoughts. “I care about you. I care about Alistair. Do I have to say sweet things to one and be cruel to the other? I have only ever wanted to be your friend. Honest and true, a person who supports you, who guides you and is guided by you. Is that not what friends are?”

Leliana’s head dropped. “Friends. I… I see.”

Esfera reached for Leliana’s hand, careful not to take the one holding the Sacred Ashes. “Leliana, my love for you is no _less_ than what I feel for Alistair. It is merely not the _same_ . I am sorry I ever led you to believe otherwise. Should I take back all of the wonderful things I have said about you? That you are a beautiful woman with a lovely voice and an incomparable eye for the world? That you are strong and brave and faithful? You cannot _make_ me take those things back. If I did _that_ , only _then_ would I be a liar.” She froze, looking off to the side. “Oh dear, I suppose it _does_ sound flirtatious, doesn’t it? I sound like Zevran!”

Her horrified face must have looked genuine enough to break Leliana’s annoyance, because she finally laughed. “Oh and _now_ you realize it.” She took a deep breath, letting go of Esfera’s hand. “I… am sorry I accused you of leading me on. I suppose I was merely… searching for something that never existed in the first place. And for you to even treasure me as a friend… I suppose I am the one being ungrateful, hm?”

She continued walking behind Esfera, bumping shoulders with her. “You shall have to tell me _everything_ , yes? Maybe not today, since I _know_ he moves _so_ slowly in a relationship, but there is no detail too explicit for me.”

Esfera smiled in relief, bumping her back. “You… recover quickly.”

“I… was merely inspired by Andraste to be true to my feelings. And I have seen it happening ever since we met in Lothering. I see the way he looks at you, as if the sun comes up whenever you stand at his side. I merely… did not want to acknowledge it as what it was. But I am your friend. Yes… yes, it _does_ sound nice, doesn’t it? I am Esfera Cousland’s friend.” She giggled, looking up at the ceiling. “Ah, there are so many bards in Orlais who would want that position. I truly _am_ lucky.”

Esfera smiled, but only because she wanted to pretend she didn’t notice the way the corners of Leliana’s eyes were twinkling.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They killed Andraste.

The dragon, she meant. Not… the woman. The woman was already dead. But the villagers’ actions upon her return to Haven told her everything she needed to know about how deeply blood was ingrained upon the minds of the cult. The bodies of the Knights of Redcliffe tucked away into hidden parts of the town that would never be returning home to their families.

The dragon demanded blood, and the townspeople were happy to give it. And with Genitivi insisting that he was going to spread the word of the Urn’s discovery throughout Thedas, inviting new pilgrims to the area despite Esfera’s better judgement, there would be _plenty_ of blood for them to give.

Dragons were rare, and had given Ferelden hope of victory in the battle for freedom from Orlais, Esfera knew. But she could not let Andraste take any more lives. Not while she could stop it.

So they returned back up the mountain and slayed the dragon. It was a difficult battle, certainly, but it _had_ to be done. She sent Alistair and Leliana back down to camp to keep the ashes safe while they finished the battle, mostly coordinating her attacks with Cookie so that the dragon could not concentrate on any one target for long enough to grab ahold of it. She was grateful for the dog’s high jumps and strong legs, his ability to jump onto the dragon’s neck and force it downwards, easily within reach of the many swords aimed at it: Esfera’s, Sten’s, even _Morrigan’s_ \-- a beautiful blade made, it seemed, just for Arcane Warriors. Which gave Esfera some hope that perhaps the art was not quite so lost as the Presence in the Life Gem had made it seem.

But then it was done, and she pulled the not-inconsequential amount of weapons and armor embedded in the creature’s gullet and distributed them among her companions. She was exhausted. And there was still so much to do.

~~~~~~~~Alistair~~~~~~~~~

He didn’t like the look Leliana was giving him. She kept _scowling_ at him! Morrigan was scowling at him, too, but that wasn’t all that surprising. Morrigan was _always_ scowling at him. Personally, he’d thought that he and Leliana had been getting along just fine all of this time, but suddenly she was just carving pieces off of that massive cheese wheel she kept with her tent, clutching the pouch of sacred ashes to herself, and _glowering_ at him.

He stirred the gray-brown stew a little bit faster, trying to figure out exactly what he’d done to merit her ire. But finally he heard footsteps, looked to see Cookie racing toward him and quickly ducked, bracing himself for impact.

Fortunately, the dog jumped right over him, heading directly toward Morrigan’s part of camp, and he was happily dog-slobber free for the moment.

He heard a thump in the dirt next to him and glanced over to see Esfera, her eyes half-lidded already.

“You, uh, want some stew?”

“Hmmm,” she answered.

“Iiiiis that a yes?”

“Hmph.” She closed her eyes, leaning her head onto his shoulder and smiling. “You took your armor off again already.”

“I… thought it needed maintenance! Cleaning, polishing… the usual… stuff.”

She chuckled, the vibration of it shaking through his body. “Not inviting me in, after seeing me in my smallclothes?”

“You-- N-no! Of course not!”

She laughed again, closing her eyes and exhaling, satisfied and, for the first time in a while… relaxed. “It’s not a bad shoulder to rest on, without all that metal in the way.”

He pulled the stewpot from the fire and set it aside, wrapping his arm around her, still tentative, feeling his cheeks grow warm just at the _thought_ of doing it, let alone actually doing it. But it was good. It felt safe, good, _right_.

When he looked down again, she was leaning heavily against him, her breath even against the fabric of his shirt, though she still had the little smile on her lips.

“Maker’s Breath, I am a lucky man,” he said out loud, holding her tighter and letting the night carry away all else but the feeling of her weight, her warmth, her breath. They would be alright. It would all be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, the characters refer to Shale using “they” pronouns, not because I don’t recognize her as female, but because they don’t /know/ that yet. Since they currently have no way of knowing her gender (which isn’t revealed until you go to Cadash Thaig), they just default to gender-neutral pronouns. 
> 
> And yes, Esfera IS bisexual. A disaster bisexual, at that.


	11. Nightmares

In the darkness, she passed figures of things she did not recognize. Mountains that moved, whose caves rose out of the ground into great black eyes that watched her as she walked, foothills breaking from the earth and rising into the sky as the gnarled fingers of an enormous hand. 

A huge bird with wings spun of thunderclouds, eyes glimmering with stars, looked up at her from its meal of a rotting human corpse and stared at her, unblinking, unreadable.

She passed a cloaked, kneeling figure staring into a pool of swirling mist, a raven perched on each shoulder. This figure, too, looked up as she passed, but all that she saw under the hood was shadow. It raised a finger toward her, the ravens on its shoulder fluttering at the movement. But she did not linger.

She passed a pool of rippling black water from which a hare and a silver-white stag drank, the splashing of water under her feet somehow not startling them away.

And she continued walking, continued her path through the blanket of darkness before her, feeling the eyes of all she had passed still on her back, not fading away despite all of the distance she put between them and herself.

But as the images she had passed faded further and further into the shadows behind her, they were replaced by a sound. Barely audible at first, a low hum, then a drift of notes whispering in the distance, but with each step she took, the more it grew, spreading across the darkness and rising, until it seemed to take a tangible shape, the ripples of its tune shaking the shadow.

It surrounded her, pulsed through her, resonated through her mind and filled her thoughts. It was a voice, clear and pure as rivers of mountain snow, wordless and yet echoing with more emotion than words could ever convey, notes of loss, of sorrow, of grief and pain, regret and anger, love and trust. A song of memory, of a yearning for a past, of bliss and peace that could never since be reached.

It was pleading. _Calling_. 

Loneliness, betrayal, helplessness. But why, she wondered? What could be so cruel as to fill a voice so beautiful with such sorrow? How could she help it? Its beauty struck at her heart, her soul, bringing tears pouring from her eyes such that they splashed against her toes as she moved.

She walked, and walked, until in the distance she saw… a light. Dim, a speck on the horizon. But it grew as she walked toward it, with each step taking no definite shape but recognizable color, pulsing with oranges and yellows and reds.

As she drew closer, she knew it to be a fire, at first one that seemed small, but the closer she got the more she realized how truly huge it was, a column of flames reaching up in a great, flickering hand toward the sky.

And in the center of it was a woman, tied tightly to a post, her long, golden hair rising in the wind of the flames and drifting across her face as she sang, her face toward the sky, her wordless melody bubbling from her burning throat like the water from a spring. As she watched, the woman’s clothes crumbled to ash, her skin blackened, the hair caught fire and turned to smoke, but still she never screamed, only sang her pure, helpless song, calling for mercy, for a savior.

But only Esfera was there. She climbed through the pyre, the tears pouring down her own cheeks cool enough to beat back the blaze around her.

The flames ate away at the rope holding the woman’s hands, and as Esfera climbed toward her, she lifted it, her ruined, charred flesh falling away as she held her hand to Esfera, pleading for her to help her, to save her.

And Esfera tried, her fingers fumbling on the knots securing the woman’s waist to the post. But as she unsheathed her sword to cut through the ropes, the woman shifted, growing with the rising flames instead of disintegrating in them. From charred flesh came glittering scales, shining all of the colors of sunset in the light from the raging flames around them. From golden hair came spiraling horns, water-blue eyes melting into a great, vicious glow, her pale, smooth neck stretching and growing sinewy.

Esfera stumbled backward from the flames, horrified as the woman she had tried to save transfigured into this enormous beast, its wings spreading through the darkness, the fire still rising through its curved talons, lighting up its powerful visage.

But most horrifying of all was that the singing had not stopped, had not slowed, not _changed_. Still there was the yearning, the pleading, the pain, the cry for help, for redemption and relief.

It was _such_ a beautiful song, aching with knowledge and memory. And a truly beautiful beast, rippling with color and muscle, as if, against the darkness, the dragon itself was dawn.

And still it was reaching for her, one long claw stretched in her direction. It watched her, it waited, still singing, still pleading, still calling.

She stretched her hand out, up, up, up, toward the claw, running her fingers over its smooth surface.

But the moment she did, the claw cracked and blackened, a darkening, roiling infection that began at the point of her touch and spread outwards, upwards, twisting through the dragon’s flesh and warping it, spilling veins outwards and turning scales inwards. Muscles split and re-knotted, the glimmering colors of its hide grew dull and bloody, dripping its black poison outwards, ever outwards, creating and spreading the infinite blackness of this world.

And still it kept singing, in the most beautiful voice she’d ever heard.

It was Esfera that began screaming.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Therilli danced in a field of glass.

Everything, every leaf of every tree, every rock and blade of grass, all of it, all of it was made of shining glass. Under the moon it shone from branch to ground, capturing the silver light and cascading it all around.

In this beautiful, fragile world she moved, she stepped, she twirled. With each step crushing the delicate grass, little green shards from this world of glass. They cut her feet, soft and bare, they cut her deep, bleeding there.

Drips of blood running down her feet as she pranced, crushing and staining the world in which she danced. Drips and streams and currents of blood, until glass and sand was nought but mud. Still through this field of blood and glass, still she danced among the spears of grass. And the blood it spread across all things, shining the crimson of the robes of kings.

And in the trees dear faces peeked through, some mysterious and some she knew. Some she loved but had been lost, some whose paths she’d not yet crossed. And as she danced and as she bled, their faces too turned crimson red.

She danced and spun across this field, shattering all that would not yield. With each step and break she set them free, from glass and blood and shining tree. But all the world was broken now, cracked and sharp as she took her bow. And of her legs only tattered flesh remained, all blood and strength long since been drained.

To set them free she’d danced and danced, breaking the prisons that held them entranced. And though all that was lovely was broken and gone, she knew she’d do it all again come dawn.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Her heart beat rapidly as she raced after Athenril through Hightown’s streets, pushing over a stack of crates to stop the Templars rushing after them. They fell with a clatter and a squeak, and Athenril laughed, only looking back for a second before speeding up, footsteps echoing against the tiled city streets. Recognizing the challenge, she pushed her own body harder, the city disappearing around her in a white blur until she almost crashed into Athenril, both women tumbling into a back alley, breathless but laughing.

They collapsed with laughter and Hawke pulled the spoils of their endeavor from inside her shirt, holding the glittering crystal bottle to the sunlight. “Money-wise, it definitely wasn’t worth it. But their _faces!_ Absolutely worth it.”

Athenril laughed and leaned against Hawke’s shoulder, staring at the sloshing liquid inside the bottle. “If it were anyone but you, I’d double the debt of one of my workers who failed the mission this badly.”

Hawke yanked the bottle away, scowling. “Hey, I did not _fail._ It’s not _my_ fault that the info was bad and the “dragon’s blood” was just a very pungent alcohol.”

She pulled the cork off with her teeth, took a swig, and grimaced. “Ugh, that takes _disgusting_ , try it.”

_But she didn’t taste anything._

She watched as Athenril took a delicate sip of the “dragon’s blood” and then frowned at the bottle. “Well, _someone_ will at least pay a little bit for it.” She handed it back to Hawke, who slid it into her pack.

For a moment, she felt the weight of Athenril’s head on her shoulder, struggling to remember what they’d been running from, what they’d found so funny. “Hey, Rils, how long have we known each other?”

She shrugged, stretching upwards to press a kiss to the corner of Hawke’s mouth. “Does it matter?”

At those words, she grimaced, pushed Athenril’s head away and stood up, ignoring the elf’s angry scowl. “Ah, well, that was fun. Time to move on, now.”

Athenril reached for her hand, her frown deepening when Hawke slapped it away. “What? Move on from what? I already said your debt is paid, so you don’t _have_ to stay, but I thought…”

Hawke laughed. “Oh, is _that_ what this is? I think it needs some spice. I’m just not really excited by this anymore.”

Athenril’s angry scowl melted into confusion. “But isn’t this what you wanted? No rules, no restraint, just… you and me?”

Looking down at her gloves, Hawke shook her head. “Maybe. But that was then, this is now.”

Athenril’s eyes narrowed, then her face relaxed. “Ohhh, I see. You want a _new_ model.” She raised an eyebrow and jerked her head toward the end of the alley.

Hawke followed her gaze, slowly drinking in a pair of long legs, olive-and-blue-white skin, then pouting lips, green eyes, and silver hair. “Oh nooo…”

Athenril grinned. “Better?”

Hawke sighed, watching the newcomer walk toward her with bright eyes, watched him reach for her, then held up a hand. “No, no, no. Just stop. I’ve had enough.”

Both Fenris and Athenril stared at her, aghast. “Why? Is this _not_ what you wanted?” they both asked her, voices growing increasingly distorted.

“Yes, maybe. But this is a dream. You’re not _really_ Athenril, and you can’t just _give_ me Fenris.”

“...What? What do you mean, I can’t? I can give you _anything_ you want.”

“It’s no fun this way. He’s going to be a tough nut to crack, but… I’m going to beat him, fair and square.”

Not-Athenril blinked. “Beat… him? When did romance become a _competition?”_

Hawke shrugged. “Since I’m the one playing.” She stretched her shoulders and glared at Not-Athenril. “Now begone. Even if you _were_ actually her, I’m still angry at her. And _you_ …” she winked at Fenris. “I’ll see the _real_ you when I wake up from this.”

If he was going to respond, he never got the chance, because Not-Athenril’s arm whipped forward, slicing through the marks adorning his neck.

“NO!” Hawke shouted, jumping forward to catch him before he fell, cringing as the falling body turned to smoke just as he would have collapsed into her arms.

“Ah, so you _do_ care.”

Hawke clenched her fist, struggling to fight the fog twisting around her limbs, clouding her vision, her mind. _This is just a dream_ , she reminded herself. _He wouldn't actually die that easily._

“You could have everything you wanted, you know,” Not-Athenril purred in her ear, a finger stroking her cheek. “Just let go. Submit, and you can be free.”

Hawke laughed, reaching for the dagger where it floated in the air, right where Not-Fenris had been standing. “I don’t think those two words can exist at the same time.”

She spun, but Not-Athenril was already gone, and Kirkwall was crumbling. Hightown’s pearl-gray streets were collapsing, mansions and pillars falling away into the sea. She heard a scream and turned immediately to the sound, to her sister surrounded by Templars, backing away slowly until her back was to a crumbling wall, the waves from the raging sea reaching up past the cliffs and with great hands grasping the city and tearing it apart, down into the unimaginable depths.

“Naiyah, help me!”

Hawke rushed forward, but the ground opened up before her, splitting and tearing as Hightown crumbled. She managed to stop before tumbling into it, but it grew, grew, grew, wider and wider. She would have to jump to get across. Could she make it across?

The Templars had her sister by the hair. They were dragging her… she was screaming, begging for help. Her staff tumbled from her hands, she was crying...

A voice in Hawke’s ear: _You want to protect your sister, don't you? You want the power to protect her. You'd do anything for it._

“NO!”

Naiyah jumped.

She jumped.

She fell.

Falling,

Falling,

Falling…

And then she landed.


	12. Esfera Cousland- The Calling

The screaming didn’t stop when she woke up. She felt hands around her arms, she felt metal against her hand, but her eyes only saw the dragon, the twisting flesh and raging flames. Her ears only heard the song and the sound of her own fear and rage at the corruption, the sight of the Archdemon looming over her.

The grip on her arms tightened and she forced her eyes open, blinking away the nightmare, until the sight of the true world returned to her, a little at a time. The feeling of dirt under her armored legs. The gray-blue of the morning sky.

The metal in her hand was the hilt of her sword.

The hands on her arms were Alistair’s.

He was holding her in place, his eyes wide, terrified by Starfang’s wicked glow, only inches from his neck, held back only by his grip on her arm, a grip he was clearly straining to maintain.

“Esfera, it’s me! It’s okay, we’re in camp!”

She gasped, dropping her sword immediately and staring horrified at where it lay in the dirt. “I… I could have killed you.”

He relaxed his grip on her arms, though she could still feel his pulse racing in his palms. “It’s okay. It was just another Archdemon dream.”

She pushed him away, feeling her stomach twist painfully. “No, no it’s not okay, Alistair! I could have _killed_ you!”

“A lot of things could kill me. We don’t live a safe lifestyle, you know.”

Esfera fought back the urge to gag, pressing a hand to her forehead and closing her eyes while she recovered her breath. “But it shouldn’t be _me._ I would _never_ hurt you.”

“And you won’t.”

She felt her heartbeat and breathing return to normal and opened her eyes. “I’m so sorry. It was a dream. A horrible, awful dream. But that’s no excuse. We _both_ get them, I don’t know why I--”

He took her wrists again, but much gentler this time, tracing the scar of the dog bite on her hand with his thumb. “Hey, it’s different for people who join during a Blight, remember? I got lucky. Mine are bad but _yours_ must be--” he cut himself off, shuddering. “I’m alright, Esfera. I promise.” He cracked a wry smile, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair away from her face, tucking it back behind her ear. “Though we should think about not falling asleep on the bare ground again. It’s probably not great for keeping away bad dreams.”

She coughed a laugh, grabbing her sword and trying to slide it back into its sheath despite her shaking hands. She looked around, noting the blanket twisted around her hips, caught on the joints of her armor. “When did this--?”

She knew there hadn’t been a blanket when she’d fallen asleep on Alistair’s shoulder, so someone must have wrapped it around them while they were sleeping. But who? She hadn’t spent enough time in any of her companions’ tents to know what their blankets looked like.

But when she asked about it, it was Wynne who claimed it, folding it tightly and then frowning at Esfera, concerned. “I saw what happened. Are you… alright? I have not seen such madness from a dream since… a failed Harrowing.”

Esfera shuddered, glancing back toward the waterhole, where Alistair was splashing cold water onto his face. “I was frightened by the dream. But much more frightened by what such fear compelled me to do.”

Wynne followed her gaze, her frown softening but still present. “I must admit, when I first noticed how taken you were with each other, I was… apprehensive, but I had never truly believed you would endanger him. His inexperienced heart, perhaps, but not his life.”

“Is there anything you can teach me? I know I’m no mage, but mages can go into the Fade willingly, right? And you have to resist demons?”

“Of course,” Wynne answered, raising an eyebrow. “What do you mean by asking me this?”

“I never want to do that again. I can’t help dreaming of Darkspawn, but… I do not want those dreams to control me. I will stop it any way I can.”

Wynne’s eyes narrowed. “I am willing to help you, of course. But you must tell me everything if I am to do so.”

Glancing around to ensure everyone was out of earshot, Esfera lowered her voice. “I can hear it calling to me, Wynne.”

Wynne’s eyes widened and she looked almost about to shout in surprise, but she quickly put a hand over her own mouth, gathering her wits and returning to a low murmur. “I know little of the Grey Wardens, secretive as they are, but… I know of the Calling. Are you sure of this?”

Esfera nodded for them to go for a walk, away from the rest of the camp, ostensibly to gather elfroot for more healing poultices. Once they were far enough away, she told Wynne as much of the dreams as she could remember. But the more she told, the more disturbed Wynne looked.

“And you have not told Alistair about this?”

“Until this morning, I thought it was normal for Grey Wardens. Since we are attuned to the darkspawn, to the Archdemon. But it’s clear to me that I had such a dream and _Alistair did not._ I will not be a threat to him, Wynne. I won’t allow that to happen.”

Slowly, Wynne nodded, adding another sampling of elfroot to her bundle. “I understand. I will teach you what I can of controlling your dreams. But only on the condition that you tell Alistair about this. He is a fine lad, good and true; I will not see you hide things from him.”

“Nor would I,” Esfera agreed. But she felt much better after having secured Wynne’s assistance. Certainly more in control of herself. Though perhaps she just needed to tell _someone_. “But I can’t waste any more time on this today. Arl Eamon is still sick, and we must get Andraste’s ashes to him quickly.”

She yanked a bushel of elfroot from the ground and turned back to camp, steeling herself for the rest of their journey.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They brought Master Dennet’s horses safely back to Redcliffe, though the darkspawn and wolves they’d encountered on the roads had certainly tried their best to prevent this from happening. But, despite Dennet’s lectures about proper fodder and the state of his riding equipment (some darkspawn swords had gotten into it since the riders had been more concerned with saving the animals than the leather), the Ferelden horses were no worse for wear than Esfera and her companions were.

They walked the rest of the way to the castle, greeting various eager villagers on their way, all eager to hear more stories of their adventures. She promised to tell as much as she could as soon as the Arl was better, a statement that inspired as much confidence in the villagers as their victory over the undead horde.

There was a great deal of hand-wringing as they reached Eamon’s bedside and Leliana reluctantly handed the pouch of ashes over to the mage that Irving had assigned to attend to the Arl’s health. Where did they find it? What happened to the Redcliffe knights that had been sent? Would the ashes work? 

But they did. As the magic settled and Arl Eamon opened his eyes for the first time in… weeks? Months? She felt herself exhale a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. But as the others converged around the man, she spotted a small face peeking around the edge of the door and excused herself from the group, herself momentarily forgotten in the miracle of the recovery.

She knelt down next to Connor, who quickly ducked back around the doorframe as she approached, his face toward the floor.

“Is… Father going to be okay?” he asked, not meeting her gaze.

She smiled tiredly, laying a hand on his shoulder. “He will live. No matter the cause, the ashes have saved him.”

Connor continued to frown, his face scrunching up in an effort to fight tears. “I was so frightened, Lady Cousland. I don’t remember so much… what I did or why I did it. I only remember being terrified that Father-- Father would--” the tears spilled over the brim of his eyes and the sobs began to escape through his voice. “I did something terrible, didn’t I? Is it my fault?”

She pulled him toward her, feeling his small, fragile body melt into her embrace, sobbing into her armor. She knew it probably wasn’t the best hug, considering all the metal in the way, but Connor didn’t seem to care. She wondered how long it had been since he had been held.

“Shhh… no, Connor. It isn’t your fault.” She stroked his hair, remembering the nights her brother and sister-in-law had been gone and she’d been left to attend to her nephew’s nightmares.

“You did something terrible, yes. A lot of people were hurt, but… I don’t need to tell you that, do I? Even without you remembering all of the things that you did while that demon was inside of you, I think you know as you look around and realize the number of people in your life that are missing and gone… that you are fully aware of the harm that you’ve done and it will live with you for the rest of your life. There’s no undoing what has happened. You just… have regret. But that doesn’t mean it’s your _fault.”_

He clung tighter to her, still crying, and she shifted her legs under herself so she could tuck his head under her chin, barely listening to the fuss over Eamon in the other room. “Sometimes, we make the wrong choices. Sometimes you’re surrounded by people who make the wrong choices. And because of _them,_ everything around you becomes chaos and falls apart, and you can’t tell if there _is_ a right choice. But Connor, just because you stand in the eye of a storm does not mean you caused it. A tree struck by lightning is not to _blame_ for the actions of the heavens just because it grows tall. It is not your fault that you asked for help and the one who answered was only interested in destruction. You wanted to protect, but you can’t save everyone, no matter how you try. And sometimes, in the act of saving something, you make it worse.” She closed her eyes, remembering her dream of Andraste in the fire, the dragon twisted into the Archdemon by her touch. “But the important thing is that you _tried_ . As long as you always hold on to that desire to protect, to save, to _help_ , you’ll learn how to make the right choices. Doing something terrible does not _make_ you a terrible person. It makes you a _person._ Because there is _no one_ out there who has never made a terrible mistake. No one.” 

Murmured into her collarbone, she heard, “But _you_ saved everything. I tried to save Father and Mother… and… and Redcliffe… but I just made everything worse. But _you_ saved everyone. Why couldn’t I?”

“I… can’t pretend to understand what it means to have magic and everything that you’ve struggled through. I only know swords and shields. But something I know about holding a sword, Connor, is that no one will know how to use it right away. That’s something you need to know about holding something sharp-- regardless of what you _intend_ it for, until you learn how to use it, you’re going to cut things on accident. You’re going to cut yourself, you’re going to hurt other people. Until you become a master at the thing that you are using to protect. It’s not your fault that you never got a chance to learn how to use _your_ sword properly.” She pulled away from him, her heart stinging as she unbuckled one of her gauntlets, then the other, and slid them off, revealing her bare hands underneath, holding them to the torchlight for him to see.

And, wiping away his tears, he stared down at her hands, tracing the rippled pink scars with his fingertip as she talked, over her knuckles and across her palms, all of the cuts, stabs, bites she had endured over her years of learning swordsmanship. “But… the thing with mistakes is that we learn from them. With every scar you get a little bit stronger. So that you never make those mistakes again. Learning how to use a sword is just as much about learning what _not_ to cut and when _not_ to cut as it is understanding the best way to strike down your foe. And in that sense, I don’t think magic and swordsmanship are all that different. The only difference between you and me is that I’ve had a _lot_ more experiences to learn from.”

His crying quieted, still looking down at the scars on her hands, and she suddenly became aware of the eyes on her, aware that the other room, which until that moment had been filled with voices updating Arl Eamon on all that had happened since he had lost consciousness, had fallen silent.

She slowly got to her feet, though she still felt Connor’s hand in her own. “Up to speed, are you, Eamon?”

The older man chuckled, his eyes flickering warmly to his son, half-hiding behind Esfera’s leg. “ ‘Eamon’, hmm? Become a hero and suddenly lose all sense of decorum?”

Esfera put one hand on her hip, raising an eyebrow at him. “All things considered, officially I believe I actually _outrank_ you now... _Arl._ ”

He chuckled again, ushering everyone away from the bedroom and downstairs, toward the grand hall. “I owe Highever my gratitude, esteemed Teyrna Cousland.” He tapped his son on the shoulder, holding him back from the rest of the group. “Your faith in this woman is well-earned, my son, but perhaps it is time to rest?”

Connor looked at his father, then back up at Esfera, then slowly nodded, slipping his hand out of hers. Esfera frowned as they watched him disappear into his room, shutting the door behind himself. Once the door was closed, Eamon sighed deeply, running his hand through his beard. “It will break Isolde’s heart to send him to the Circle, but after all that has happened… I see no better choice.”

“Well…” Esfera continued toward the stairs, keeping pace with Arl Eamon’s footsteps. “I wouldn’t worry about it just yet. Kinloch Hold is in no state to be accepting new apprentices, nor are its Templars particularly eager to hunt apostates. You will have time to prepare, at least until the Blight is over. Until then, Connor is safest here.”

They joined the others in the grand hall, the fire burning behind Eamon as he regarded their bizarre group, apparently deciding that commenting on its odd makeup was a waste of time. He launched right into the discussion of how much he owed them, that they were Redcliffe’s heroes and were from that moment on officially its Champions… and that Redcliffe’s forces were, of course, at their disposal to face the Blight, in addition to using the castle as a place to gather their forces. As soon as they went to Ostagar and recruited the dwarves, they would have the political and military backing they needed to face Loghain. Which brought up another problem.

“We have no time to wage a campaign against him. Someone must surrender if Ferelden has any chance of fighting the darkspawn.”

“Loghain’s actions have done nothing but speed the Blight’s advance,” Esfera insisted. “We cannot afford to surrender to him.”

“I will spread word of Loghain’s treachery both here and against the king. But it will be but a claim without proof. Those claims will give Loghain’s allies pause, but we must combine it with a challenge Loghain cannot ignore. We need someone with a stronger claim to the throne than Loghain’s daughter, the queen.”

Bann Teagan turned toward him quickly, uncertainty tingeing his voice. “Are you referring to Alistair, brother? Are you certain?”

Esfera blinked. “Alistair?” She glanced over at him, noticing how he was suddenly shrinking away from her. “ _This_ Alistair? Or a different one?”

“No no, he means me,” Alistair squeaked, barely meeting her eyes. “Guess I… never told you that part, did I? Bastard son, right? Well, fun fact-- my father is actually… Maric.”

Esfera stared at him aghast, but was thankfully interrupted by Eamon’s serious tone, either unaware or ignoring the bickering. “I would not propose such a thing if we had an alternative, but the unthinkable has occurred.”

Esfera closed her eyes and took a deep breath, indexing her reaction to discovering that Alistair was, literally, a _royal bastard_ for later. “You mean to put Alistair forward as king?”

“Yes, and your support would be integral, Lady Cousland. Teagan and I have a claim through marriage, but we would seem opportunists, no better than Loghain. Alistair’s claim is by blood.”

“And what about _me?!_ ” Alistair suddenly burst, “does anyone care what _I_ want?”

“I--” Esfera began, but Eamon interceded.

“You have a _responsibility,_ Alistair. Without you, Loghain wins. I would have to support him for the sake of Ferelden. Is _that_ what you want?”

“I… b-but I…” he looked resigned, pleadingly at Esfera, then down at the floor. “No, my lord.”

Esfera’s heart stung, even as Eamon looked relieved, stating that he would call a Landsmeet, the gathering of all of Ferelden’s nobility. As soon as they acquired the assistance of Orzammar.

“I’m afraid Lady Cousland’s status won’t be officially recognized at the Landsmeet,” Teagan reminded everyone, scowling. “Since Loghain has given Highever to Howe.”

“He _what?_ ” Esfera growled.

“I know, I know. Believe me, Esfera, there are more people who recognize you as the heir to Highever than those that do not. But the struggle for the right to Highever will have to wait until after the fight for the throne.”

Esfera squeezed her fist, remembering her father’s spirit back in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, reminding her to let go. Slowly, she exhaled a breath and the tension in her muscles. “Of course. I understand.”

“Even without her official status, the Bannorn would be foolish to disregard the word of a Cousland,” Eamon interjected. “Grey Warden or not.”

She determined that they would return to Denerim quickly to give their regards to Genitivi before they made their way back to Orzammar, and then it was time for everyone to turn in for the night, to begin making preparations for the coming fight.

But the moment the grand hall began to clear, Esfera snatched Alistair’s hand and pulled him along to her room in the castle, pushing him into the room before her and slamming the door behind herself. The moment the sound echoed down the hallway she whirled on him.

“Your FATHER was KING MARIC, and you never told me?!”

“You… never asked?”

She scowled at him, her hands on her hips. “This is _not_ something to play coy about, my dear.”

“It’s… let me try to explain. The thing is, I’m used to not telling anyone who didn’t already know. It was always a secret. Even Duncan was the only Grey Warden who knew. And then, after the battle, when I… _should_ have told you… I don’t know. It seemed like it was too late by then. How do you just tell someone _that?”_

“How about ‘Esfera, I’m King Maric’s illegitimate son’?!” She closed her eyes and exhaled a sharp breath, then opened them and moved over to the bed, plopping down on it. “You’re right, it’s a big thing to say, I realize that. I just--” she yanked the string off of the end of her braid and began unwinding the hair through her fingers, trying to force herself to calm down. “It’s also an important thing to _know_.”

He moved next to her, looking as if he was about to sit down on the bed next to her, but decided against it, instead standing before her awkwardly. “I know, and I… should have told you anyway. I guess part of me _liked_ you not knowing.”

Frowning up at him, her fingers halted in her hair. “Why?”

“People treat me differently. I become the _bastard prince_ to them, instead of just… Alistair. That must sound stupid to you, but I hate that it’s shaped my entire life. I never wanted it, and I certainly don’t want to be king. The very idea terrifies me.”

Esfera let go of her hair, her hands going still as they drifted to her lap. “I… never cared that you were a bastard, Alistair. And even _who_ your parents are, my affection for you is entirely unchanged, it’s just… I am stuck in the middle of all of this _mess_ and struggling every day just to keep Ferelden from falling apart. If everything had gone right, it wouldn’t _matter_ who your father was, because Cailan would still be alive and Loghain wouldn’t _be_ a threat we have to take down, but the fact is that it _didn’t_ . Grey Wardens are supposed to stay out of politics but I see myself entirely without a choice if we are to stop the Blight. I can’t afford to be out of the loop on a _single_ stitch, or everything falls apart. I don’t want to _force_ you into anything, because I care for you… so much the idea is frankly terrifying. I only wish… _you_ had told me. That it hadn’t been sprung on me, on either of us.”

She finally paused for breath, reaching out to take his hands, to pull him gently next to her on the bed, an invitation not to be afraid. “I’m sorry I reacted angrily, Alistair.”

“No no, you’re right to be angry. I should’ve told you.” He leaned against her shoulder, his fingers fluttering in his lap. “You’re not… seriously considering making me king, are you?”

She sighed, beginning to unbraid her hair again, but accepting his weight against her. “I don’t think it’s the worst idea.”

“Wait… you’re serious?”

She nodded, staring balefully at the closed door. “Currently our options are you or Loghain. And you know how I feel about the latter.”

“What about Anora?”

Esfera tapped her finger on her leg, frowning. “I don’t know enough about the woman to have an opinion either way. I’ve met a great deal of nobility, but I suppose my mother always felt me a bit too… brutish… to meet someone as dignified as the queen. Regardless, right now she’s a puppet of her father and all of Ferelden knows it. Without Loghain, I don’t know.” She sighed, weaving her arm through Alistair’s and leaning heavily against him. “Tell you what… I won’t bring up you being king until I meet Anora myself. I won’t push you to do it; I won’t argue your desires. But if she comes up deficient… just know, Alistair… I really do think you would be a decent king. You are, after all, a very good man.”

“Stooop it, you’re making me blush. But, um… when we go to Denerim…”

“Yes?”

“Do you remember… in the Fade, when you rescued me from the demons?”

“Of course. You… seemed happy.”

“That… wasn’t made-up. Well, it _was_ , but I really _do_ have a sister. Only… I’ve never actually met her. But coming back to Redcliffe, it made me think… maybe it would be nice. Reconnecting to family, I mean.”

Esfera smiled, thinking back to her own home, to wrestling her brother in the great hall while the guards took bets, to nauseatingly long hours practicing needlework while her mother hovered over her shoulder, to training with her father in the courtyard until her fingers grew blistered and they had to stop practicing so he could wrap her hands with bandages, to carrying her nephew on her shoulders while she ran through Highever, listening to his wild giggles.

“Yes… it’s good to be with family. We’ll visit her, I promise. We have to bring Wade those dragon scales we found, after all.”

“Probably best we don’t mention they’re from the reincarnation of Andraste, hm?”

Esfera laughed, but then felt her heart grow heavy. “About that… I have something to tell you, too, Alistair.”

He twitched against her, sitting up straight. “Those words never mean anything good.”

She turned so that she was facing him, their legs still touching, just barely. “About the dreams… the Grey Warden dreams…” she told him everything, all that she’d told Wynne, starting from when she’d first been made a Grey Warden and up to the other night, her stomach twisting as she’d remembered the expression on his face as she’d awoken to see her sword at his throat.

He was completely silent as she explained, save a few startled gasps and a lot of face-journeying.

“There was so much about it that frightened me… that she was pleading for my help, but I couldn’t save her… that _I_ was the poison that turned it into the Archdemon… the thought that in my desperation to help, I saved a soul that would cause such destruction… that fear caused me to act. I tried to slay the monster in my dream, but instead…” she sighed, hanging her head. “I was a threat to you. That frightens me… more than anything.”

Alistair exhaled, leaning back on his hands as he looked up at the ceiling. “Wow, I… I keep waiting for you to say something like ‘haha, Alistair, you’ve fallen for my joke!” He sighed again, sitting up straight again. “...but that’s not going to happen, is it? The Calling is the end of a Warden’s _life_ … it’s not supposed to happen for _years_ and you only _just_ became one! It doesn’t make sense.”

“I _know_ it doesn’t make sense, but that’s what happened. And why me, and not you? But maybe it _isn’t_ the Calling. We don’t really have much to go on regarding what the Calling _is_ , right? Maybe it really is just because I did my Joining after the Archdemon rose, and you didn’t. And maybe it’s nothing-- I just overreacted to the dream, I’ll do better next time.”

He leaned back again, thinking, his eyebrows so low in his face that they almost concealed his eyes. “Or maybe… if it _is_ really different… what about that stuff you drank, back in Soldier’s Peak?”

Esfera blinked. “The blood draught?”

“Yeah. Avernus’ notes said it was the results of his research on Warden blood. And… it did _something,_ right?”

“Well… yes,” Esfera mused, remembering the demons reeling as their claws breached her skin, hurlocks and genlocks in Honnleath screeching as her heartbeat raced, her sword flashing faster. “It did… something to my blood. It’s like… acid, now. It burns things.” She pondered it further, her eyes widening. “You don’t think…?”

“It’s worth looking into, right?”

She nodded, exhaling so deeply she could feel her whole body relax, so much so that she (not-accidentally) collapsed onto Alistair, surprising him enough for him to fall backwards onto the bed, her hair spilling out onto his breastplate. 

“I can’t fall asleep next to you again,” she murmured, knowing she was pinning him under her weight.

“What? Why not?!” He noticed his voice’s increase in pitch and cleared his throat. “I mean… not… that I was thinking about that sort of thing. Well… that’s not all that true, I was _thinking--_ you know what? I’ll just shut up.”

She smiled against his chest, then pushed herself up onto her arms, gazing down at him. “It’s certainly not for lack of desire, my love,” she answered, her lips twitching. “But I won’t allow myself to put you in danger like that again. Not until I know more.”

“Ah. You have me in a _very_ compromising position, my dear.”

She raised an eyebrow, leaning down to kiss his cheek, and when he lifted his body to meet her, drifting her lips to the tip of his nose, the corner of his mouth, and then the full, sweet taste of his lips. He melted into her bed, until finally she pulled away, rolling off of him. “We should go to bed,” she murmured. “We’ll stop by Soldier’s Peak on our way back to Denerim. We have some stuff to drop into storage there, anyway.” She got to her feet, running her hand through her hair. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so suggestive-- I just wanted to talk in private.” She turned back to him, her cheeks burning. “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable. I should have asked--”

“N-no, no, I was-- it was--” his voice was rising in pitch again, and he rubbed the back of his neck, straightening up so quickly that he almost hit his head on the bedpost. “It was good… to talk… alone. Away from that _nosy_ elf. And Morrigan with her _scowling_. But maybe I should stay away from your bedroom, hm? Before I explode?”

Esfera laughed, helping him to his feet and kissing him on the cheek, pushing him gently toward the door. “Goodnight, Alistair.”

“Goodnight, my dear.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Their return to Soldier’s Peak was interrupted by their discovery of a man on the road-- someone Alistair recognized as one of King Cailain’s closest attendants. He told them about Maric’s sword and shield, Cailan’s scattered armor… and then died. They hadn’t been able to rescue him in time.

“He wants us to go back to Ostagar,” Esfera mused, gathering kindling to bring back to the man’s body. “It… could be suicide.”

“You’re right,” Alistair sighed, frowning at the man’s limp body as Wynne solemnly set the corpse on fire, hot enough to reduce it to ash, but not so wild that the forest around them caught flame. “Darkspawn are pouring out of Ostagar. We’ve gotten much better at teamwork, and the Archdemon still hasn’t shown itself outside of our dreams… but it’s still pretty risky. But the idea of those _creatures_ with the king’s armor and sword… half-brother or not, the idea of it leaves an awful taste.”

Esfera looked off to the edge of the path, where Morrigan was waiting impatiently for them to finish, examining her fingernails and ignoring Leliana’s suggestions about going shopping together in Orlais sometime. “Well… I did make a promise to go back there anyway. I just… may have to take some lessons in sneaking.”

He tilted his head at her, and she shrugged. “I love my friends. Even if they’re… very crazy.”

“Well… you’re not wrong about that. But… this could be an opportunity! The Archdemon would _never_ expect us to go straight into the darkspawn lines, cut one of their main routes to the surface off completely. We could slow it down!”

Esfera laughed, helping him to his feet. “And so we _will_. What was it I said to you, Sten? About going north until we attack the Archdemon from the rear?”

“It’ll certainly never expect it,” Sten answered completely emotionlessly.

“Then it’s settled! After Denerim, we’re heading south to Ostagar!”

She glanced up just long enough to see Morrigan raise an eyebrow, her yellow eyes flickering with something along the lines of acknowledgement, perhaps even gratitude.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

They returned to Soldier’s Peak to much the same fanfare and appreciation with which they had left it, which was a considerable amount. Many of the Drydens wanted to ask questions of Shale, who was having none of it, Michael Dryden was mostly concerned with how Esfera was liking her Starmetal sword (considerably, thank you), and Levi couldn’t heap on enough praises.

After depositing a heap of accumulated weapons she was hoping to distribute to her armies, Esfera paused, gazing up at Avernus’ tower from the base of the keep.

“What of Avernus? Has he been giving you any trouble?” she asked, sliding the last dagger into the chest and closing the lid.”

“That mage? No, he’s been real quiet. Eerie, really. But don’t you worry none, I make sure no one goes near him, keep the kids safe. But don’t really need to; he hardly ever leaves the tower.”

Sighing, Esfera caught Alistair’s gaze and nodded. “Thank you, Levi. I… have some business with him.”

Aside from Cookie, padding along beside them as they made their way back up through the Keep, they made sure it was a Wardens-only discussion with Avernus. Not that Esfera wanted secrecy, but she wanted to tell her friends on her own terms-- she wanted as many answers as possible before she accidentally sent things spiraling out of control.

Avernus was waiting for them as soon as they entered, standing just as eerily straight and horrifyingly dignified as he had when they’d first met.

“You have questions,” he announced, peering down at them from the dais. Esfera tried to ignore the still-rancid smell of the place, the metallic stench of blood that had leaked into every crevice in the stone, every wisp of air, every grain of wood. He had barely even attempted to clean up the grisly results of his experiments, despite his promises to only work “ethically.”

Before Esfera could even say anything, his gaze landed on her, his eyebrows raising. “You… drank my draught. I sensed it before, but… I can feel that the magic has settled. You are stronger, yes? I always said, Grey Warden blood has so much _potential_ , but the others did not see it, no, but you-- you are the _crystallization_ of all of that work.”

“Wait, wait, Avernus. You can sense it?”

“Yes… the draught works by… clarifying the darkspawn taint in your blood. Concentrating it, _using_ it. Your blood calls to them much more strongly than your… friend’s.”

Esfera’s stomach flipped. “So what you’re saying is… I’m _more_ Darkspawn than your average Grey Warden?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know why you’re surprised. How _else_ did you think you gained in power, without the interference of demons or spirits? The power of Grey Wardens comes from the Taint. So increase the Taint, and your power grows.”

Esfera leaned quickly against the wall, clutching her chest. “So… it really _is_ the Calling.”

Avernus stepped back, aghast. “You hear the _call?!_ But so young, so early! Is this a true side effect?! You must tell me everything…”

~~~~~~~Alistair~~~~~~~~

He didn’t like this.

The more he listened to Avernus talk, question, rant, explore… the more he regretted not stopping her, that day, when she drank the damn thing in the first place. Yes, it was _her_ decision. But she hadn’t been in her right mind, they both knew that. And the fact that she was reacting so _calmly_ , just nodding her head, explaining more about the dreams, the singing that she was hearing every time she slept… that confused him more. How could she be so… accepting?!

He’d only heard… distant mentions of what the Calling was like. None of the other Wardens liked to talk about it. Duncan had mentioned that his was coming soon; he could tell. But it was abundantly clear to him that Calling = death. And Esfera, because of _one stupid mistake_ … was hearing it much earlier than she was supposed to.

But he straightened when he heard Avernus announce, “I may have a treatment for you. Not a cure, but… when I was experimenting, sometimes the draught was too strong for my… volunteers. I found ways to counteract its effects somewhat to… extend their lucidity for study.”

“You have a cure?!” Alistair almost shouted, enough to make the dog cock his head at him from his spot at Esfera’s side.

“Not a cure, I’m afraid,” Avernus answered, his eyes narrowing at him. “Merely a… treatment. Alleviating the symptoms, not the cause.” He moved over to his desk, shuffling papers, knocking aside bottles, until he finally procured a tiny vial of swirling iridescent liquid. “A most… delicate blend. Some of the ingredients are quite volatile, if not mixed correctly. But the _key_ … is griffon blood.” He held the vial out to Esfera, who took it as if it would explode the moment she touched it.

“Griffons? But I thought they were extinct!”

“They _are_ ,” Avernus answered bitterly. “Powerful, noble creatures. But I had my doubts that the Wardens of old kept the beasts merely as _symbols_. They had a pragmatic use for Wardens, more than any other Order in Thedas. Quite simply, their blood counteracts the effects of the Blight.” He paused, eyeing the swirling liquid with a scowl. “Though it seems they did not carry such immunity for themselves.

“With such an incredibly limited supply, this is all I can give you, I’m afraid. A single drop will weaken your bond to the Archdemon for a single night-- such that it will be no stronger than that of any other Warden. But…” he sighed, “it will be _such_ a waste for you to reduce the effects, rather than allow me to study your strength…”

Esfera jerked the vial away from him, her eyes narrowing. “You’ve done _enough_ to my blood, Avernus. Remember our deal?”

“Yes, yes, but…” his gaze glittered, though his permanent scowl remained. “What happens when you face the Archdemon? We _both_ very much want to know.”

Alistair tried not to gag, but Esfera was already patting her thigh to summon her dog to heel and striding out of the room. “Thank you, Avernus. That is all I want to know for now.”

“Yes… for now.”

~~~~~

“So…”

“So…” she repeated, letting the silence drag on for much longer than he had.

“You’re okay with… all of this?”

She sighed, lifting the vial to the light. “No, I’m not _okay_ , I just… I should have known there would be consequences. At least this way… I have answers. There’s… a _reason_ . Even if I don’t like it. I will live with it.” She tucked the vial into her pack, gently nestled among her various potions. “But I _will_ live.” She hooked her pinky through Alistair’s, smiling nervously. “I promise.”

~~~~~~~~~

Esfera was spending a lot of time with Wynne, lately. Not that he minded-- he _adored_ Wynne, she was like a lovely grandmother to him-- but it was odd to see them chatting at _every_ camp, Esfera listening patiently while the mage talked, even falling asleep with Wynne nearby, the older woman’s voice softening to a murmur with every word, long after Esfera was snoring against her Mabari’s back.

And yes, she snored.

When he asked Wynne _what_ in the Maker’s name this was all about, she pursed her lips at him and raised an eyebrow. “She asked me to teach her how to control her dreams, or more accurately, to control _herself_ while she is dreaming. To protect _you_ , I imagine.”

He gazed down at her sleeping form, wanting to reach for her, to brush her bangs out of her sleeping face, but more than aware that Cookie’s “sleep” was nothing but a ruse-- one of his big brown eyes was wide open, watching Alistair’s every move. 

“Has it been working?”

Wynne shrugged. “It is hard to tell. Our dear Mabari companion guards her as she sleeps, alerting her if she is moving without waking. An… extra precaution. It has not yet become necessary, but… time will tell. The Archdemon does not call every night, any more than demons did me while I was in training.”

Alistair looked down at Esfera again, then sighed and began scratching Cookie behind the ears, knowing it was the closest the dog would allow him to get until Esfera herself said otherwise. “But… what about Avernus’ treatment?”

“She’d rather have other options. Griffon’s blood is, after all, not a supply she can replenish. Even a single drop each night will deplete her supply quickly.” Wynne’s expression softened and she reached over to pat him on the shoulder. “She _loves_ you, Alistair.”

“I…” he wanted the words to come out, but they struggled to get past his throat, to take shape on his lips and be spoken into the air, so long as the fear sat in the way. To be… himself, disappointing, embarrassing, foolish Alistair, bastard extraordinaire. He wasn’t _ashamed_ of himself, not exactly, it was just… she… _she_ . Esfera Cousland, a woman who, with only a few words, cowed the woman who’d sent him to the Chantry, where he’d been more or less miserable. Who was equal or even above the man he’d feared as a father, and had been saved by the man he’d loved like one. He loved her, of course he loved her-- _everyone_ loved her. And that she loved him… he _knew_ it, felt it in every touch, in every word from her lips, from every long, silent gaze, a woman who _poured_ love into the world, an endless fountain of it from which the source was impossible to find. How could he deserve that love more than anyone else?

“If you’re thinking you’re unworthy of her again, I’m going to hit you with my staff.”

“Hey! Are you reading my mind, you crazy--”

Wynne chuckled. “I don’t have to read your mind, Alistair. I see your face. You’ll have to do better at controlling your expressions if you’re to be king.”

He groaned. “Oh, Wynne, not _you_ , too.”

Frowning, she asked, “is there a reason you don’t want to be king?”

“I don’t _like_ being in charge, alright? You make decisions for everyone else and just expect them to be happy with it. And… we talk such a big game about being able to _choose_ the king in Ferelden, but what about _my_ choice? What if I just want to be… be a Grey Warden?”

“With her?”

He pouted, knowing he’d been caught. “Yeah. With her.”

Chuckling again, Wynne gestured to Esfera who, he hadn’t noticed, had shifted in her sleep so that her fingers were curling toward him, her lips moving in her sleep. “I pity the creature that attempts to take her away from you.”

“I think that mostly includes the Archdemon.”

Wynne’s lips twitched. “Then I pity the Archdemon. And, I imagine, so does she.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

He squinted down at the map of Denerim, Esfera waiting patiently for him to decide where they were going. They’d already given Wade the dragon scales, with which he was determined to make the finest armor in all of Ferelden (his words, not Alistair’s), and now, while they waited for him to finish doing so, Esfera had decided that this was the perfect time to go visit Goldanna. Since her house was _somewhere_ around here…

He heard barking and had to sidestep in order to avoid Cookie racing past his feet, disappearing into the city. “What the--?!”  
Esfera only blinked, confused. “He must’ve seen a rat.”

But then, only moments later, the dog was strolling back, his entire rear end wiggling in joy as a child followed him back to Esfera, laughing at the “doggy.”

Hands on her hips, Esfera scowled down at Cookie. “ _Where_ in the world did you get this little boy?!”

Cookie barked.

“No, we can’t keep him. He’s a child.”

Cookie whined.

“What, _no_. Would you bring a puppy to fight darkspawn?”

Cookie barked.

“Oh you-- and what if we _do_ bring him with us? Are you prepared to train a human child in combat?”

Cookie whined, shying away from her.

“Then you _know_ he’s too young. Go bring him back to his parents, you goofy kidnapper.”

Cookie whined a bit, but turned back, nudging the child away.

Alistair burst into laughter while Esfera scowled after them, her hands still on her hips. She shook her head, turning back to him. “He loves kids. I think that’s his way of saying he wants one.”

Alistair felt his face heat up, and Esfera immediately realized her mistake. “N-not what I meant! It’s a little too soon for-- um, anyway, what about Goldanna? Find her house yet?”

As soon as he looked down at the map again, it all clicked into place. Maybe he’d just been so nervous that he hadn’t let himself look at everything properly. “Oh, I’m such an idiot-- it’s _right here_.” He pointed at the house leaning sideways toward Wade’s workshop.

Esfera gave him _the look_ and then waited for Cookie to return, walking up to the door and gesturing him over.

He stood in front of the door, raised his hand to knock… and froze.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Esfera.”

“Sure you can. If you can face a Blight, you can face… a launderer.” She added the description only after reading the sign on the door, then turning back to him. “And I’m always here with you through both.”

“Or we could leave! We really don’t have _time_ to pay a visit, do we? Maybe we should go…”

Esfera raised an eyebrow at him, laying a hand on his arm. “Alistair.”

“Oh alright,” he admitted, taking a deep breath… exhaling. Another deep breath, exhale… then knocked.

The door swung open and a child missing his two front teeth looked up at him, taking in his shining Warden-Commander armor, the sword at his waist, and the expression he _hoped_ was encouraging and inviting.

“MA! We’re finally getting arrested!” The child shouted, ducking under Alistair’s arm and scurrying out the door.

“W-what, no, I’m not here for--”

A hand reached out to snatch the child back, just missing, before the hand’s owner cursed and straightened, drying her hands with a ragged towel. “Who’re you supposed to be? We haven’t broken any laws, and even my rascals ain’t done no damage I haven’t paid for. If you’re here for linens to wash? I charge three bits on a bundle, you won’t find better. And don’t trust what that Natalia woman tells you either, she’s foreign and she’ll rob you blind.”

“Oh, I’m… not here to have any wash done. My name’s… Alistair. I’m… well, this may sound sort of strange, but are you Goldanna? If so… I suppose I’m your brother.”

“My what?” the woman scoffed, running a hand through her stringy red hair. “I am Goldanna, yes… how do you know my name? What kind of tomfoolery are you folk up to?!”

Esfera stepped forward, a hand on his arm, her usual straight, confident posture combined with her gentle eyes and warm smile a relief to him. “Please, ma’am, he’s telling the truth. If he wasn’t, I’d drag him out of here for you.”

“Right!” Alistair heard himself squeak. “Our mother… she worked as a servant in Redcliffe Castle a long time ago, before she died. Do you know about that? She--”

Goldanna’s eyes narrowed and she flung the towel to the ground, pointing her finger at him and yelling through clenched teeth. “YOU! I _knew_ it! They told me the babe was dead along with mother, but I knew they was lying!”

Alistair blinked, backing away from her pointed finger. “They told you I was dead? Who? Who told you that?”

“Them’s at the castle! I told them the babe was the king’s, and they said he was dead. Gave me a coin to shut my mouth and sent me on my way! I knew it!” She grabbed the towel off the floor and stomped over to the sink, tossing it in and grumbling to herself as she scowled over the laundry. “And now he says he’s here, that he’s my brother-- for all the good it does me! _You_ killed Mother, you did, and I’ve had to scrape by all this time! That coin didn’t last long, and when I went back they ran me off!”

Esfera, next to him, frowned deeply. “Maybe we should go, Alistair…”

But before he could say anything, Goldanna whirled on her. “And who in the Maker’s name are you? Some tart, following after his riches, I suppose?”

She blinked, taking a moment to react to being called a “tart, ” before finally answering “I do believe if anything it was the other way around.”

Alistair couldn’t help but snort, though even he could sense that this whole “reunion” thing was going terribly. He managed to hide it behind a sneeze, but that was probably because Goldanna was still preoccupied by Esfera, taking in the braided orange hair, the shining silver armor, the sheathed but glowing longsword still visible past Esfera’s shoulders. “Yeah, looking at you don’t seem like some gold-grubbing chambermaid.”

“Hey, don’t speak to her that way!” Alistair snapped. “She’s my friend and a Grey Warden! Just like me!”

“Ohhh, I see, a prince, and a Grey Warden too.” Goldanna scoffed, crossing her arms and leaning against the load-bearing post. “Well who am I to think poorly of someone so _high and mighty_ compared to me? I don’t know you, _boy_ . Your royal father forced himself on my mother and took her away from me, and what do I got to show for it? Nothing! They tricked me good! I should have told everyone!” Her voice started to crack, her stature faltering but not breaking. “I’ve got _five_ mouths to feed, and unless you can help with that, I got less than no use for you.”

Alistair felt all of his hope, excitement at being able to meet his family crumbling away. The dream the sloth demon had shown him a _complete_ fantasy. “I- I’m sorry, I… don’t know what to say.”

Esfera, next to him, crossed her arms, fighting to keep up more patience than he had hope. “Goldanna, no one here is unsympathetic to your struggles, but Alistair couldn’t have known them until now. Your aggression is unfounded.”

“Unfounded! This fancy tart thinks she can talk to me like that! If you’ve got money, then use it for something more helpful than fancy armor!”

Alistair reached into the pocket on the inside of his armor and retrieved his coin purse, glancing at Esfera for a moment, waiting for her to smile and nod toward Goldanna, though he could see the tension in the muscles around her eyes, how she fought a frown-- much like how she’d looked back in Redcliffe, talking to Isolde. This kindness wasn’t coming as easily to her as usual.

“Here,” he said, handing over a couple of sovereigns they’d saved up. “I’ll bring more if I visit again.”

“ _This_ all you’ve got?! This’ll barely last me the month!” She scoffed, sliding the coins into her pocket and grabbing the towel again, flicking it at him. “Get outta my house.”

Esfera opened her mouth to say something, probably something about how that much _gold_ could feed an _army_ for a few months, but Alistair closed his eyes, putting a hand on her shoulder before she could retaliate. “It’s okay, Esfera. I wasn’t expecting my sister to be so…” he shook his head. “I’m starting to wonder why I came.”

Esfera nodded, spinning around toward the door and pushing it back open, the children that had gathered around her waiting Mabari hound scattering as the door cracked against the side of the house, the first _real_ evidence of how irritated she was.

He gave Goldanna one last glance, but she was already back to her washing, cursing under her breath. She really couldn’t care less about him, could she? Or, apparently, her door.

“Well… that was… not what I expected,” he announced as soon as he (gently) shut the door behind them. “To put it lightly.”

Esfera shrugged, kneeling next to Cookie and running her hands through his fur. He joined her, absentmindedly petting the dog, realizing that it was helping _him_ calm down, too. “ _This_ is the family I’ve been wondering about all my life? That _shrew_ is my sister? I can’t believe it.”

Sighing, Esfera reached across the dog to take his hand. “The world isn’t always a good place, and she has every right to be angry about what it’s done to her.”

“I…” he leaned against Cookie’s side, the dog apparently happy to be cuddled as long as he was off guard-duty. “I guess I was expecting her to accept me without question. Isn’t that what family is supposed to do? I… I feel like a complete idiot.”

“Alistair, no matter what the Chantry or anyone else tells you, blood doesn’t _make_ family. Some people are really just out for themselves, no matter who they’re related to.”

“But… what about _your_ family?”

“My family was my family not because of blood. I loved them because they were _there_ , because they loved _me_ , and treated me as their own. But we can’t always _expect_ that from anyone. Or… you’ll just get hurt.”

“Like I just did?” he scoffed, running his fingers through his hair. “But… you’re probably right. You know about family better than I do, right?” he laughed, though it rang painfully hollow through his chest.

“Will… you be alright?”

He took a deep breath, sorting out his thoughts. “Yes… I just… need a bit of time, I think. To sort things through.”

She smiled, getting to her feet and holding out her hand to help him up. “Then you shall have it. As long as you need.”

~~~~~~~~Esfera~~~~~~~~

_The song persisted._

_As always, she walked through the darkness, heard her footsteps through the indiscernible muck beneath her, felt the press of bodies against her, all walking toward the same end. The Archdemon, with its eyes that flickered from dream to dream, sometimes blue, sometimes yellow, but always burning cold. It stared right at her, right into her, everything in its gaze promising her that she could not hide, that it knew her, more than anyone could ever know her, perhaps more than she could know herself._

_And it sang. It sang, an ever-present melody that, at first, had been beautiful. And it still was, but… it was always the same song, never changing. Over and over and over and over again, rippling the shadows and the bodies around her. But she was not powerless against it._

_This is a dream._

_A simple statement, but all the change in the world._

_The moment she thought it, the bodies around her ceased to be faceless, but blurred into the shape of darkspawn like brown paint being sloshed against a dirty canvas._

_The song grew louder, and she answered it again._

_“This is a dream.”_

_The darkspawns’ chorus grew louder, their screeches and growls surrounding her. They roiled, their flesh pulsing in the light of the Archdemon’s flames, their hands grasping at her, their claws digging into her flesh, but she did not draw her sword. She did not need to, because this was only a dream._

_They dragged her closer to the Archdemon, closer, closer, until she stood before its great eye, her face reflected in its glowing surface. And the song continued, its pleading, mournful song._

_This is only a dream._

_It opened its jaws._

_This is only a dream._

_Teeth, cracked, blackened teeth, sharp as needles like shards of obsidian._

_This is only a dream._

_They closed around her, snapping through her armor and into her flesh, while darkspawn tore at her arms, ripped away her weapons, until darkness was closing in, darkness, darkness…_

She awoke with a gasp, like surfacing from the darkest depths of a winter lake, sitting up quickly. She still remembered the scrabbling of darkspawn around her, the look on the Archdemon’s face, the singing, the calling.

Her tent was almost as dark as the Archdemon’s maw, and it took her eyes a moment to adjust, to return herself to the here and now. Her armor, neatly piled in the corner. The soft glow of her sword nestled underneath her traveling cloak so that it would not disturb her sleep. Her pack, set nearby her pillow so that she could reach out and take the copy of “A Study of the First Blight,” into which she had tucked Alistair’s rose. A rustling sound-- her dog, reacting to her movement and sitting up, too, regarding her with cautious curiosity.

She smiled at him, reaching out to feel his familiar fur under her hands. “It worked, Cookie. It finally worked!” she whispered, her excitement too much to contain. Whispering it wasn’t enough, she wanted to… to shout it, scream it, run out into camp and dance along to the tune of those words. 

She didn’t, of course, knowing that she would only hate herself later for waking her companions from their much-needed rest… but she also knew that she was far too excited to go back to sleep.

As she slipped out of her tent into the chill spring night air, she turned her eyes skyward, trying to determine the time of night from the constellations she could see in the night sky, like Morrigan had taught her. Fervanis was barely visible at the edge of the horizon, which meant… it was well into the night, but the sun would not rise for some time. It seemed she had only been asleep for a few hours.

Cookie followed her out of her tent, as she tried as hard as she could to move quietly past Leliana’s tent, wondering if the pounding of her ecstatic heart would itself be loud enough to wake some of her companions. Though it seemed her feet were loud enough by themselves.

“Esfera?”

She jumped, almost tripping over Cookie, when she heard Alistair’s voice. “By the Maker! What are you doing awake?! Even _Sten_ is long asleep.”

“Dreams,” he answered. “The usual.” He shrugged. “And… you too?”

“Actually,” Esfera answered, delighted that the person she wanted to tell more than anyone was the one available for the telling, “I managed to control it. The dream, I mean.” She described to him her ability to resist the Archdemon’s call, the urge to pull out her sword and fight it.

Alistair grinned. “And normally getting eaten by a dragon is a _bad_ thing. You really _are_ exceptional.”

Chuckling, she sat down next to him on the log next to the crumbling embers of the campfire. “It reminded me of the Fade. Well, I guess it _is_ the Fade, but… when we were in the Circle. I woke up in a different place and I was alone. I’d never realized how frightening that would be. Wondering where all of you were, if you were alright, if I could save you… in my dreams I’m always alone. My greatest reminder of reality is that here… I’m not.”

“No, you’re not.” Alistair looked down at his hands, in which rested his mother’s locket, his thumb running over its surface. But then suddenly he straightened, sliding the amulet back around his neck and grabbing Esfera’s hands in his own. “So, I’ve decided.”

Esfera, startled by his sudden change in demeanor and topic, just blinked. “About what?”

“You’re right. Back in Denerim, when you said that I can’t keep letting people walk all over me… I get it, now. I need to start thinking for myself. What _I_ want.”

“Okay…”

“And, Esfera, I… okay, this ‘doing what I want’ stuff isn’t easy, but… I want to ask…”

“Yes?”

“Would you… want… to spend the night. With me.” He paused, his face scrunching up adorably in concentration. “...Please?”

Esfera stared at him for a long while, processing what he’d said, what he _meant_ by what he said, whether she’d actually heard him correctly.

“You’re… you’re sure?”

“I kept trying to think of… of the perfect time, the perfect place,” he began, his words picking up speed with each moment until they were tumbling from his mouth in a landslide of emotion “but everything is so chaotic, and then there was in Redcliffe when I was in your bed and I _wanted_ then but it _wasn’t_ perfect--”

“Alistair.”

“--Because you should have still been angry, but that feeling hasn’t gone away and I… I know I’m not smooth or charming--”

“Alistair.”

“--So I just have to _ask_ and maybe I’m reading everything wrong and I--”

“ _Alistair.”_

He finally stopped for breath, his entire face bright red as he managed to meet her gaze, to freeze under her touch as she leaned forward to brush her fingertips over his cheek, skimming the stubble on his chin and pulling him, gently, towards her. “ _Yes_. Yes, a thousand times yes.”

He pulled backwards for a moment, his eyes widening as if he’d been expecting a different answer. “You’re sure?”

Esfera chuckled, leaning forward and pressing her forehead against his, breathing in the scent of his lips even without kissing him. “I’ve been sure ever since I watched you kill the ogre in the Tower of Ishal. I just wasn’t _ready_.”

Blinking, Alistair asked, “wait… all the way back then?”

“All the way back then.” 

And she kissed him. And kissed him. And kissed him.

It would be indecent for Esfera Cousland to go into the details that followed. She drank a drop of the griffon-blood potion, that much is important to mention. She had Cookie sleep outside on “guard-duty” to protect as much from interruptions as attackers. That is also important to mention.

But the press of his lips against her skin, the feeling of the fabric of his shirt in her fingers, the warmth and texture of skin against skin, of his voice murmuring into her hair, of their clumsy fingers and embarrassed laughter and the unholy sounds that rose from her throat... 

Those things are not to be written down. Not for Esfera Cousland.

Rather, it is in the sleeping, in holding him in her arms while she returned to the Fade to walk in the darkness, that is important to record. For the first time in a long time, her dreams were silent. Whether it was because of Avernus’ potion or the incomparable bliss her heart had settled itself into, it really didn’t matter, did it? She was alive. She was loving. She was loved.

She _was_ loved. She knew it, even before she woke, opening her eyes to the rays of morning light piercing the walls of her tent, the early birds already singing in the trees despite the impending Blight. Knew it even before she realized that her arm was completely asleep because Alistair had fallen asleep curling into her, his head on her shoulder, his breath tickling her collarbone.

It was a strange discomfort. The kind where she knew she _should_ try to move, but the idea of waking him after he looked _so happy_ … that was even more uncomfortable. 

_I love him_ , she thought, loudly enough that she wondered if the Archdemon could hear it in her thoughts. In a way, she almost wanted it to.

But she must have moved just enough to disturb him, for his eyes to blink open and for him to slowly, blearily lift his head, yawning, then realizing where he was sleeping. “Oh… good _morning_ to me,” he said with a smile, hiding his face in her chest until he had gathered his wits. “Sorry, I’m still a little, um, giddy. Have I told you I loved you?”

Esfera smiled, rolling onto her side and wrapping her arms around him, giggling. “Maybe. But it’s good to hear it again.”

“Ah. I love you.”

“Hmmmmm… once more.”

He laughed. “I love you, you immeasurable temptress.”

“And I love you,” she answered, smiling against her pillow, speaking the words into existence, with each syllable stretching through the air and caressing his face, sinking through his skin and into his heart. “I love you, my Alistair. My silly, romantic, thoughtful, self-conscious Alistair.”

He smiled, a big, goofy grin that threatened to split his face, sighing and collapsing against her again. “It’s morning,” he announced.

“It is indeed.”

“We… should get moving, shouldn’t we?”

Esfera groaned, leaning back against her pillow. “Hmmm… we should…” but she closed her eyes again, holding him tighter. And he didn’t move, either, though she felt his lips curve into a smile against her skin.

They didn’t *actually* get up until Morrigan tossed a fireball through the tent flap.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Getting back to Ostagar in the first place was hard enough. The further south they went the heavier the darkspawn traffic across the roads, the more destroyed caravans they encountered, the more ruined farmholds they passed. Sometimes they were lucky enough to arrive just in time for the darkspawn to begin their raid, managing to kill the beasts while the refugees, merchants, mercenaries huddled together for their lives.

Most were fleeing to Denerim or Amaranthine, where Loghain and Howe promised protection, both from the Blight and from the civil war in the Bannorn. For their sakes, Esfera hoped it was true. 

Fortunately, thanks to recent developments, Esfera tended to wake up feeling much better rested than ever before. Even on the nights she didn’t go to sleep right away. Whatever darkspawn they were encountering on the roads, no matter how numerous, must not have been the Blight’s main force, because they fell easily to Starfang’s edge, Morrigan’s spells, Shale’s fists. Despite this, the closer they got to Ostagar, the deeper the unease within the pit of Esfera’s stomach grew.

The last time she’d made this journey south toward the Wilds, she’d been fleeing Highever with Duncan. Every memory of the place was tinged with death.

And it smelled of it, too.

Even before they came in view of the ruins, the stench rose across the singed and corrupted plains, the rotting and burned flesh, a tantalizing smell for the thousands of flies that swarmed through the place, the air filled with their buzzing, so many that it was a waste of energy to try and swat them.

The low hum of death and insects mixed unpleasantly with the voice singing in the back of her mind, and she shook as much of the memory as she could out of her head.

She felt a hand on her shoulder plate and turned to see Wynne looking at her sympathetically. “It is a heavy memory, isn’t it?”

Slowly, Esfera nodded. “I survived. Many, many… _so_ many did not.”

She steeled herself, picking her way over the dozens of human corpses toward what had been the main camp, stepping through the ashes of what had been a campfire, where she remembered seeing a soldier with black hair and silver eyes, sharpening an enormous sword. That woman may very well have been dead, now.

She heard movement and quickly drew her sword, just in time to slice through a blighted wolf mid-jump. She forced herself to set aside the past and, for a while, concentrate on combat, staying close to Alistair and working in tandem with Wynne’s spells.

The darkspawn carrying bits of Cailan’s armor revolted her. To see that golden armor on such a filthy creature… it brought bile to her throat. And, it seemed, it revolted Alistair, too. His face twisted in an expression she couldn’t quite name as he drove his sword through the thing’s chest, watching it sink to the ground before stabbing it again, and again, and again.

Only once all had stopped moving did he pause and pull off the golden boots, whose magic had protected them from the scum all around them. They still shone in the late afternoon sunlight, almost the same color as Cailan’s hair had been.

“It’s good armor,” Esfera said, not sure what else there was to say.

“It’s… heavy.”

She nodded, sliding her pack off of her shoulders and setting it on the ground, open and waiting to be filled. “Then I’ll help you carry it.”

Nothing more needed to be said. They continued through the ruins, every step a place that evicted memories. The burned gates of the Mabari kennels. The tower where she had done her Joining, where Ser Jory had died, never knowing that he did not have a pregnant wife to return home to, because Esfera had never had the chance to tell him that she’d died in Highever. Where Daveth had died from the blood that now sang in Esfera’s veins.

She could still see all of it as it had been, as if her months away from the place had done nothing to mar her memory. The colors, the sounds, the smells, so different from the ash and snow that now concealed the remains of what had been. It was late in the year for such snow, even this far south. But she imagined a power as fierce as the Blight could certainly influence the weather.

They managed to find the key to the chest that contained Maric’s sword and Cailan’s shield, as the king’s attendant had promised. As Esfera lifted the sword out of the chest, however, she heard Zevran whistle.

She turned and scowled at him, and he shrugged. “What? It’s a very _sexy_ sword. Not as nice as _yours_ of course, but… can I have it?”

“No.” she answered flatly. She held the sword to the light, wondering at its beauty. She wouldn’t describe it as sexy herself, but… Zevran wasn’t _wrong._ The dwarven runes glowed brilliantly against the metal, its curves wicked enough to snatch enemy blades and send them backwards. 

She straightened, holding the sword flat in both palms, toward Alistair. “What do you think, my love?”

He scowled down at the sword for a long time, memory flashing in his eyes. “You know… I didn’t really know Cailan. But I can’t help but wonder… there’s so much he just… _left behind_ . Why wouldn’t he bring this onto the battlefield with him? And… if… if he _knew_ that I was his half-brother… is that why he sent me to the Tower of Ishal? Did he _know_ that Loghain would betray him?”

“I… don’t know,” Esfera answered, peering down at the sword. “But there’s no sense ruminating in it now. What Cailan wanted… what he planned… all we can show for it is that we’re alive. I didn’t know him much better than you did, but… he _did_ believe in the Wardens, even when it seemed no one else in all of Ferelden did. He would want a Warden to have this sword. I am sure of it. But… it makes the most sense that it should be you, if either of us.”

Slowly, Alistair reached for the hilt, wrapping his fingers around it, the metal of his gauntlets sinking into the leather grip as if they were made for it. He lifted it out of her grip, the metal singing in the frigid air, swinging it around in a high arc before coming back to rest, sighing. “I was… kind of hoping it would feel… wrong. The weight would be off or something. Like you said back in Soldier’s Peak before Michael made you Starfang. But… no, it’s a good sword. I hate how good it is.”

“You don’t have to use it if you don’t want to,” Esfera chided.

“I’ll take it if you don’t,” Zevran piped up.

“Hush, Zev.”

Alistair shook his head, hefting the sword in his hands again. “No… I think I will take it. I can’t keep running. I won’t.”

Esfera nodded, watching as he slid Asturian’s Might from its sheath, tossing it to Zevran, who almost didn’t catch it, as surprised as he was for being given it.

“Really? You’re giving me this one?”

“You use it for something naughty and I’ll kill you, elf.”

“No you won’t,” Zevran replied snidely, switching out his own swords. “You would have to catch me first.”

“Why is he here, again?” Alistair asked, sliding Maric’s sword into his sheath.

“I thought we may need a rogue and Leliana wanted to stop in Lothering.”

“Ah.”

Esfera shrugged. “We should move on. We still have pieces of armor to recover.”

And recover it they did, though it certainly wasn’t easy. There remained an ever-present tide of darkspawn, some of them wearing his armor, some of them apparently there only to frustrate Esfera and Alistair.

None of them considered putting the armor on. Even as Esfera, Wynne, and Alistair fought to move past the ghosts that followed them through the ruins, the armor was much too heavy for any of them. It carried the weight of too much death, the stink of the Blight. It needed to be washed in something much stronger than water.

But then they crossed the bridge, toward the tower.

As they stepped onto it, Esfera’s ears began to ring, and she jumped in Wynne’s way, just in time to block a blast of magical fire with her shield, gritting her teeth as she watched the Genlock emissary turn and run, corpses rising around him.

And as they began to fight, the ringing in her ears rose into a melody, until she could barely hear her companion’s voices, the clash of blades, the clanging of armor. When finally the battle was over and all she saw was the rotting, sagging, naked body, pinned like a trophy to the crest of the bridge… the song consumed everything.

 _Golden hair, Warm golden-brown eyes that crinkled at the edges when he smiled, talking of Grey Wardens and glory. Everything about him had been gold, as if he had been poured forth from the sun_.

There was nothing recklessly savage about this. Cailan had promised her that he would take his armies north to Highever as soon as the battle at Ostagar was done. An empty promise, she had known it then and she knew it now.

He looked so small up there. Had his golden armor made him look taller? Bigger? Stronger?

_A beautiful melody, a song of longing and grief and regret._

She felt hands on her shoulders, turned toward the source, saw Alistair looking at her, his lips moving, but all she could hear was the song. She reached up to him, to hold his face in her hands, trying not to think about those eyes, the curve of his face, remembering how her first thought when she’d met him was that he’d reminded her of someone. Now she knew who it was.

Gradually, the song faded, and she could hear his voice again.

“Esfera… are you alright? We’ll come back, after we hold them back. We’ll give him… a proper burial. Can you hear me? Esfera?”

She nodded, shaking. “I… yes. Of course. I think… that necromancer, he’s… channeling everything here. Strengthening the Archdemon’s call.”

She stared up at Cailan’s body, then forced herself to look away, steeling herself to complete the challenge they’d come for. “So we’ll just have to kill it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The song came in waves as they fought through the tower of Ishal, past every darkspawn and risen corpse the genlock necromancer sent after them. Not all were easy, in fact most weren’t, but they had to keep moving. Had to find Cailan’s helm, stop the flood of darkspawn through the south. 

When they finally erupted into the snow-covered field where Ferelden’s armies had fought and died, and found the remains of an ogre, a sword and a dagger still buried in its neck and back, the song grew louder. She could barely focus at all as darkspawn that should have been dead rose all around her, the necromancer staring at her all the while, its ever-present grin defiling its twisted face.

She was relieved when it died, after a spell contest against Wynne. It couldn’t seem to focus on fighting her and keeping the ogre alive, too.

Finally, the singing ebbed, back to the low hum it usually was, and Esfera fell to the ground before the fallen ogre, reaching out to the hilt of the blade that had felled it the first time, yanking it out of the putrid purple-grey flesh.

She recognized that blade. The simple red steel, unadorned but sturdy. And its pair, a dagger buried in the neck. She reached for it, her fingers instead meeting another hand.

“These were Duncan’s,” Alistair breathed, pulling the dagger from the body and closing his eyes as he gripped the hilt of the dagger so tightly that Esfera could hear the metal in his gauntlets warping under the strain. “That… that _thing_ killed him.”

“He was outnumbered and betrayed,” Esfera replied, getting to her feet. “But it’s done. It’s done, Alistair. With this… we can honor him properly.”

He nodded, slowly, and she sent Zevran ahead back to camp, burdened by the goods that they had recovered from the ruins. Bows, swords, armor… the lighter things. To distribute to their allied troops. Better be put to use against the Blight there than waste away here.

But mostly she wanted to be alone with her other survivors of Ostagar as they removed Cailan from his crucifixion, as they built up a pyre with the wood of pikes and gates the darkspawn had not yet burned. She watched, transfixed, as the fire rose into the sky, just like that of Andraste in her dream. But this was no punishment. This was release.

She watched as all that was gold turned to black, crumbling and fading to smoke, until her eyes burned from the light and ash. Only then did she turn away, her grip tight on the straps of her pack, where Cailan’s boots and gloves were tightly fit.

“Let’s go. We… still have an appointment to keep.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Said appointment of course being with Morrigan’s mother.

They’d made camp well away from the ruins of Ostagar, partially because of the smell and partially because Esfera was unsure how far Flemeth’s reach extended. She was not about to break her promise to Morrigan for any reason, let alone an accident. They were far enough away, she hoped, that Morrigan was in no danger of possession as soon as she took her companions into the Wilds in search of the hut.

Flemeth had saved her life, this was true. But so had Morrigan, countless times. And Flemeth never even denied the horrible stories that shadowed her movements, the blood on her hands, including that of her daughters.

She denied nothing when Esfera confronted her, her friends at her side. Only suggested that she take the grimoire, return to Morrigan and tell her that Flemeth was slain.

“I will not lie to Morrigan,” Esfera growled, her hand still on her sword. She knew she was being idiotic, that she, like so many, would soon be dead at this old woman’s hand, but she had grown so _fond_ of Morrigan over these months.

Flemeth only laughed, the face of an old woman twisting into a grimace Esfera did not want to think of. “Then so be it.”

Fortunately, Esfera had some experience slaying dragons, or the battle would have been much more difficult. It was certainly not _easy_ , for with every strike she knew she was attacking the woman who had saved her life, that she was _taking_ life, despite all that she had sworn to do, but… in killing Flemeth she was protecting Morrigan. And countless others who could share her fate.

And then it was done, just before the morning sun rose.

Esfera, her armor stained and burned by dragon blood, returned to the hut where she had risen the first morning after Ostagar, took Flemeth’s key, and retrieved the Grimoire, eager to remove herself from this place. With the singing in her ears returning, she never wanted to return. Not ever.

~~~~~~~~~Alistair~~~~~~~~~~

He would never get used to waking up and seeing Esfera next to him. Every time-- _every time_ \-- he would see her face and emotions would bubble up from inside of him, warm and unnameable. Most days she would wake much earlier than he did, but she never, _never_ got up without waking him first. Though he supposed it would be difficult for her to do so, since he apparently got… clingy… in his sleep. Especially when _he_ got Grey Warden nightmares.

Some mornings he would wake to her nudging him to get up, to pack their bags and continue their journey-- there was still so much to do.

Some mornings he would wake to see her still laying in her bedroll, one arm around his shoulders, the other propping open a book on her chest, using the rose he had given her, pressed flat and dried within the pages, as a bookmark.

Some rare mornings, he would wake to see her still asleep next to him, her mouth wide open in a loud snore that he was amazed he could sleep through.

But more often, if he awoke while she still slept, it was to her tossing and turning from nightmares, her mouth muttering words he couldn’t quite understand, sometimes what sounded like a language, but none that he could name. That was what he woke to this morning.

He propped himself up on an elbow to watch her as she writhed in her sleep, her arms tangled in the blanket of the bedroll as if to be restrained by it. He wondered if he should try to wake her, or if that would only result in her dreams lashing out at reality, as they had that first time.

But then her eyes suddenly snapped open, unfocused, her chest still heaving from the fear of the dream. Slowly, gradually, she calmed, her breathing steadying, the light returning to her eyes as she fixed her gaze on his face.

“ _Alistair,”_ she breathed, a word formed as much by relief as it was by sound.

“Yup, still me, still here. As if I’d be anywhere else. Honestly, I don’t think I can even sleep in my own tent anymore.”

Her lips curled upwards in a sleepy smile, and she untangled her right arm from the bedroll ro reach up, to cup his face in her hand, running her thumb over the stubble on his jaw, her fingertips slipping through his hair. 

Leaning into her touch, he asked, “more nightmares? The Archdemon again?”

She leaned back into her pillow, closing her eyes and shuddering. “Yes… and no. I dreamt… well, I dreamt of Ostagar.”

“Okay…”

“I fought through ranks of darkspawn, until I reached the center of the bridge, where we found Cailan’s body. But this time, what was there… it wasn’t him.” She opened her eyes again, her smile long gone. “It was _you_.”

“Oh,” he said, unsure of what else to say until the image of what she was describing settled upon him. “ _Oh.”_

She sat up, letting the blankets fall to her waist as she looked at him again, as if memorizing every feature of his face. “When we first met, I… well I _wouldn’t_ have thought to compare you to him. Cailan, I mean. Why would I? I had no reason to believe you were related. But then we found him at Ostagar and I had the thought, this brief, terrible thought… you _do_ look alike.”

“Wait… really?”

She nodded, reaching for her discarded clothes, but only setting them in her lap, not yet ready to put them on. “It’s not a close resemblance. You are far more… angular. But… the shape of your jaw, the curve of your eyes… there’s more in common than I care to think about. But then… in the dream I saw you and remembered… you could have been in his place. You could _be_ in his place. That… display was no accident, it was a shrine to victory. Those monsters _knew_ he was the king, and the desecration of his flesh was their symbol of worship.” She shuddered again, her fingers tensing in the fabric of her clothes. “It was bad enough when it was Cailan, but the idea of _you_ in that same place… the rage I felt alone could have slain the Archdemon.”

Alistair fell back onto his pillow, running his hands over his face and groaning. “This is… kind of why I _don’t_ want to be king, you know? I don’t want you to see me… like _that_ … either.” He paused for a beat, peeking out at her through the backs of his fingers. “Though… they didn’t treat Duncan much better and _he_ was just a Grey Warden. He was Commander, sure, but no king. At least Duncan wasn’t strung up for the world to see.”

“It frightens me, too, you know.” she said, still not looking at him. “Being a monarch... a ruler of _anywhere_ , it comes with… responsibility. I’ve never looked at governing Highever as any kind of divine right or privilege of jewels and money and status and power… all of those things are just compensation for responsibility. And for _risk._ Being king, being even a _noble_ puts a huge target on your back, and it would be irresponsible, even silly to think otherwise.” She sighed, beginning to dress her top half. “Maker knows I’ve resisted enough assassination attempts to know about the risk. And not want it on you.”

“How did those go, by the way?” Alistair asked, sitting up on his elbow. “Aside from Zevran’s botched attempt. Just so I know. Since I’ve never been important enough to assassinate, until now.”

She shrugged, tightening the laces on her blouse. “Poison, usually. Nan was quite cautious, but there’s always somewhere along the line from kitchen to table that it can slip in. As an adult I liked to think it’s because they were too afraid to face me in combat, but that doesn’t explain the attempts when I was a child. Fergus, too, but usually I bore the brunt of it. My brother had considerably more restraint at the table than I did.” She chuckled at the memory.

“Or do,” Alistair quipped, and she raised her hand to smack him but he ducked under the blanket to hide. “Don’t hit me! I bruise easily!”

He heard her laugh, then poke at him under the covers “I wouldn’t actually hit you.” But before he could emerge from under the blanket, she whistled, and immediately he heard something large come crashing through the tent flaps, landing directly on top of him.

“AUGH! Hey, you cursed-- get off of me!” he shouted as he struggled to get out from under the blanket and the warhound. “I can’t… I can’t breathe!”

Cookie wiggled happily until Alistair finally managed to pull his head out from under the blankets, glaring directly at the dog-butt planted right on his chest.

Esfera laughed, squeezing the dog’s jowls in her hands. “Awww, Cookie, is Alistair in your spot? Are you jealous?”

Cookie barked, somehow managing to grow heavier the more Alistair struggled underneath his weight, until finally Esfera grabbed his collar and hauled him off, allowing Alistair to suck in a deep lungful of air. But as soon as he managed to sit up, Cookie whirled on him, licking his face.

“Ack, so… much… drool!” he complained, but despite the slimy mess, he couldn’t help but smile, smile at the way the dog wagged his entire body at him, knowing that Cookie was just playing with him, or else he’d be _really_ injured. But also the idea that a creature could be _so_ loyal to Esfera… he was glad he’d been identified as friend rather than foe. He wished he had a dog of his own. Would get one, if he became king? It would be weird if the king of _Ferelden_ didn’t have a Mabari, after all. Though he knew you didn’t get to decide if you got a Mabari-- the dog decided that.

Finally Cookie stepped off, looking quite pleased with himself, while Esfera tossed Alistair his own clothes. “Nine times out of ten, this big boy is the one who saved me from the really nasty assassination attempts. Sniffing out poisons, Blighted rats… and waking me when there were intruders in the hall or at the window. Even when Howe attacked… I owe my life as much to Cookie as I do to Duncan. He woke me before Howe’s men could get into my room. My… sister-in-law and nephew were not so lucky.”

Alistair tried to think of something to say, but before he could open his mouth, Esfera shook her head and forced a smile. “But enough of these dark thoughts. It is time to greet the day. We are almost to Orzammar.”

Alistair groaned, but grabbing the edge of the blanket only resulted in a game of tug-of-war with Cookie that Esfera apparently had no intent of mediating as she got up to finish getting dressed. 

A game that, ultimately, Alistair lost.


	13. Therilli Lavellan- My Guide

It was a quiet patrol.

Much had been quiet, ever since the clan had moved its camp further north from Wycome, away from the rivers and mountains and into plains of tall grass marred by sudden, unadorned cracks in the earth, nearly invisible among the wheat except from a bird’s-eye view.

In such a place, one had to be careful where one stepped, lest they end up with at best a twisted ankle. It was through this wilderness that Therilli made her daily patrols, picking her way through the grass and chasms to watch the many miles around the camp for signs of Shemlen activity-- the unwelcome kind, mostly. Occasionally, she would visit the farms and offer trade-- grain and liquor in exchange for furs and Dalish craftsmanship.

This was a much more dangerous venture than wandering the chasms-- not all farmers around Wycome were friendly to the Dalish, no matter Clan Lavellan’s decades of attempted peace and negotiation. Many a time Therilli had been chased from a farmhold by ignorant quicklings armed with pitchforks and insults. Not the least of which was “savage witch,” one that wasn’t just rude, it was inaccurate. If the shemlens weren’t so afraid of magic that they purged it from their lives the moment it appeared, they might have enough sense to realize that she was no witch, regardless of whether she could be considered “savage.”

However, enough humans outside of the noble classes were reasonable toward the idea of trade to make the venture worthwhile--though the clan did tend to assign this duty only to the most well-armored-- so Therilli had gotten much better at saying the right things to the right people. Had even gotten invited to dinner a few times. 

But that was not today’s business. Today, she was tasked only with wandering through the miles and miles of grassland, watching carefully for threats.

So far, just about all she’d seen had been… grass. Interspersed, of course, with wildflowers, scrub brush, and even the occasional tree, like all grasslands were, but pass the same ones enough times and even the interruption becomes monotonous.

And to think, Therilli had thought these plains beautiful when the clan had first arrived. An ocean of golden stalks almost as tall as an adult elf, as far as the eye could see, shimmering in waves of autumn breeze. Now it was just boring.

She was wandering close to a farmhold, she knew, recognizing the specific crevice she stepped over between sheaves of grass. It would soon be time to turn back, to find the stream and follow its path back to Clan Lavellan’s camp. She wandered close enough to hear the lowing of oxen before she deemed her patrol completed-- no sign of any plans to attack the clan.

As she left the farmhold behind her, though, she made sure not to go the same way she’d come-- too many times on the same path through the grass and she’d leave an easy, beaten-down trail for the shemlens to follow right back to the clan.

She always tried not to look down whenever she stepped over one of the cracks in the earth. No one was certain how deep they went or how they got there-- the tales changed with each teller-- let alone what may be lurking in the depths within. Therilli wouldn’t have looked into this one, either, had a flutter of movement not caught her eye.

Her first thought was that this was some creature from the depths, risen for the express purpose of swallowing her whole. Her second that she was an idiot, and there wasn’t much that could fit through a hole that size and still be capable of swallowing her whole. In pieces, perhaps, but not whole. 

Upon recovering from her initial fright, she dared to look more closely into the shadows, finding the source of the movement not far from the surface at all.

In fact, there was a net stretched across the widest part of the crevice, likely placed there by the nearby settlement of humans afraid of falling in and getting stuck. A good idea, perhaps, if not so amateurishly executed. The fishing net used was cheap, made of thin rope that could not hold human weight for long-- good for catching small, slippery fish like bluegill, but useless for holding large, strong fish like trout and salmon.

Indeed, the net had, instead of either fish or human, caught a bird of prey.

From the top of the crack all she’d been able to see of it had been a blur of brown feathers, but now that she knelt next to the rocks, she could see the piercing golden eye, the sleek dark brown plumage marred by tufts of soft gray and white-- a young golden eagle.

Its chest heaved as it stared at her, clearly exhausted by its attempts to thrash its wing and talon free of their entanglement in the net. Blood had stained the fibers of the rope twisted around its foot, and considering the angle at which it was bent under the eagle, Therilli guessed it was probably broken.

She clicked her tongue, reaching toward the young bird with one hand, expecting it to lash out at her with its flesh-tearing beak. But it didn’t. Instead it went still, its eyelids drooping as it laid its head against the net into which it was trapped.

“Just as impulsive and foolish as any elven youth, I see. How long have you been trapped like this, I wonder?” She stroked its smooth head, running her fingers over the soft chick tufts, what remained of its nestling plumage. “Were you trying to catch something?”

She paused, listening past the rustling of grass in the breeze, scanning the darkness below for signs of movement. Past the shadows cast by the knots in the net, she could see ledges all around the chasm walls, not more than a few inches wide but large enough to accomodate the source of squeaks/squeals she could just barely hear coming from below.

“Nugs? You almost got yourself trapped long enough to starve to death over _nugs?_ You have no taste, Da’len,” she scolded the young eagle, who chirped ashamedly in response.

Therilli sighed, grabbing her hunting knife from its sheath at the back of her belt and holding it up to the afternoon sunlight.

She noticed the eagle’s pupils narrow at the shine of the blade, and she reached out to stroke its feathers once more.

“Shhh… _I am not going to hurt you, little one,”_ she assured it in Elvhen, as if it were more likely to understand that than the common Thedosian human tongue. “ _But you are going to have to trust me and stay still.”_

The eagle fluttered a bit, as much as it could with an entangled wing, then fell still, watching her every move and chirping tiredly, but no longer actively struggling against the net.

She started with the wing, firmly grasping the thickest part of bone and muscle in her hand as she carefully tucked the blade of the knife under the tangle of net and sawed upwards toward herself, careful not to cut through any flesh or feather.

As each strand came free, she continued talking to the eagle in Elvhen, keeping her voice low and gentle, remembering how Ni’rae, the Halla-Keeper in their clan, would soothe the halla whenever wolves would come too close to the camp. 

Another strand came free, and then another, loosening the net’s grip on the wing until the bird felt free enough to struggle again, but Therilli had to hold it in place to stop its flapping. “Wait, wait! You’ll just get it tangled up again if you move!” she reminded it. Once it stopped flapping again, she cut the last threads of net around its wing and moved onto the legs, these being much trickier, since they were more severely injured. The talons embedded into the net most of all, having pierced through the ropes in the attempt to get away and also having enough hook to get more tangled in the fibers.

She moved even more slowly, pulling away the net one fiber at a time, so focused on what she was doing that she almost didn’t hear the footsteps through the grass as she finally tugged the last toe free from its prison, hoisting the golden eagle into her arms just as she heard the clear sound of a human man’s voice calling out.

“Is someone there?! Show yourself!”

Tucking the large bird against her chest as if she was carrying a baby, she took off through the grass with the desperate, leaping steps of halla, weaving her steps just fast enough to avoid the arrow that went whizzing by her cheek and embedded itself in the rock outcropping of a crevice she leapt over. Fortunately, it didn’t seem as if the human was pursuing her through the grass, but she took no chances. She held the bird tightly to herself as she ran, hoping its strength would last long enough for her to get it back to the Keeper for healing, while also winding her path in knots to confuse pursuers.

~~~~~~

Most everyone assumed the worst when she full-on sprinted back into the clan’s camp. That she was being chased by humans, or demons, or whatever monstrous creature Therilli had managed to wake from its eternal slumber _this_ time.

There was even screaming, some shouting to sound the alarm. Only once she was most of the way to Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel’s tent did anyone think to ask her why she was running, to which she only responded “Injured… gotta… Keeper!” and dashed into the tent.

Keeper Deshanna seemed a bit startled when she came flying through the entrance, carrying the wind with her, though not exactly surprised. She looked immediately down at the feathery bundle in Therilli’s arms, holding her hands out to receive it.

She examined the bird for a long time in absolute silence while Therilli described what had happened, bending the wings and pinching its injured leg between her fingers, frowning when Therilli mentioned almost getting shot by that farmer.

But finally, when Therilli’s summary was done, she raised her hand up, stopping Therilli’s tongue. “That is enough, Da’len. I will tend to this bird. I will summon you when I am finished.”

Therilli snapped her jaw closed mid-sentence, then nodded, trying not to admit that she was desperate to see her clan leader work miracles on a life that, for anyone who dealt with injured birds regularly, would have considered it mercy to end the suffering.

But she obediently left the tent, a bit calmer now that the bird was receiving healing magic. In terms of its actual injury, she doubted it would be hard to heal, but she worried that it was so _weak_ when she’d found it. It had probably been trying to struggle itself free for days. 

As she paced, she explained the situation to her (very frightened) clan members more in detail. The Hahren chastised her for causing such a panic over an injured animal, but otherwise the clan members merely rolled their eyes and dispersed, leaving her to wait impatiently by the Keeper’s tent.

The Dalish had an intimate bond with the beasts of the land and sky, she’d been told since childhood. Life was precious, and if taken, should not be wasted. But more than that, rescuing the bird simply seemed like something she’d needed to do.

She heard the tent flaps open behind her and spun to see Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel step out of her tent, her eyes still slightly luminous from healing magic. In her arms she held the juvenile golden eagle, its eyes shut but its breathing steadied.

“I have healed her leg and put her to sleep to save her strength,” the Keeper announced. “But she is still very weak, Da’len. Had you not found her, I doubt she would have survived the day.” She held the bird close to her chest, stroking its feathers with her long, spindly fingers, and Therilli was struck by just how _small_ the Keeper was. She hadn’t noticed while growing up, and even as an adult her authority had made her seem larger, but she looked tiny compared to the mass of muscle and feathers in her arms. And this was a _young_ eagle, too. Female and thus larger, yes, but not even fully grown. But Keeper Deshanna was not a tall woman, even for an elf, Therilli realized, nor did she have the same years of developed muscle that she herself did. She didn’t need to-- she had magic, after all.

Keeper Deshanna adjusted her grip on the sleeping bird and held her out to Therilli, her expression turning stern. “You will have to take responsibility for the life you saved, Da’Theri, just as you are responsible for the lives you take. You will need to nurse her back to health.”

“I understand, Keeper,” Therilli assured her, taking the eagle into her own arms. Istimaethoriel nodded, then wandered away to attend to the training of her First.

And Therilli wandered away to tend to the recovery of her charge.

~~~~~~~~~

She started small, once the Keeper’s spell wore off, trickling droplets of water down a string and into the eagle’s beak to combat her likely dehydration. This was tricky at first, since she kept trying to snip the string, but they eventually figured it out. Only once the eagle had drank and the water settled in its stomach did she move onto strips of dried wild ram meat, chewing it in her own mouth and then taking it out and physically pulling the bird’s beak open and sticking it deep into her mouth until she swallowed, since she was too weak to lift her head and take it from Therilli’s fingers herself.

Once the eagle returned to sleep after eating, Therilli left her nestled in her bedroll as she finished her nightly chores-- receive her portion of the day’s hunt, sharpen her sword, help train some of the clan’s children in combat, listen to the Hahren’s story of choice for the night, send some prayers to Mythal, and then return to her tent.

She made up a bed for the eagle out of furs she had intended to sell to the humans soon, hoping to save some of her energy by keeping her warm. She seemed to welcome it, settling into the furs and falling back asleep.

Satisfied with what she could do for her for now, Therilli went to sleep herself, though still with the eagle in full view. She would not fail at her new task.

The next morning, the eagle awoke before she did, still exhausted, but able to chirp at her to awaken.

Therilli stretched, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes then rolling her shoulders, reaching over to stroke the bird’s feathers. The namesake golden sheen of her crest had not yet come in, remaining a dull brown, but she was still a lovely animal. Even injured and thin from starvation, there was an elegance to birds of prey that Therilli respected. Sharp angles and perfectly positioned feathers. Had she not been found entirely entangled after failing to hunt nugs, Therilli would have considered this one a noble beast, equal to any of the land. Yet here they were.

The golden eyes watched her as she prepared for the day, braiding and pinning back her hair, then dressing in her under-armor clothing and buckling her leg guards on, knowing she would have to go to another clan member to get the rest of her armor on properly.

The eagle was still too weak to do much, but at least she could lift her head now. That was a good sign-- her strength was returning. But they could not attempt to recover too much too quickly, or her stomach would not be able to handle it. She would likely develop diarrhea and fade quickly if they were not careful.

“Alright, I will go find us some breakfast,” Therilli assured the eagle, stroking her head again. “Stay here.” Not that the eagle was likely to move, but… she was more or less saying something to say something.

She took her share of the day’s provisions-- dried ram meat, some fruit, and hard baked bread-- then ate while her fellow clan members helped her buckle on her armor, and she helped them in exchange. She looked down at her packed food and sighed, remembering that the clan had rules as far as how much food each person could take. They were important rules, ensuring that there was always enough to feed everyone in the clan, but it meant that she could either feed the injured eagle or have food for herself. She could go ask permission to take more, but the Keeper had been pretty clear that caring for the juvenile bird was her own responsibility.

She sighed, closing her pack and resolving that she would just give her meat rations to her new friend and catch herself some small game while she was out in the fields. Creators knew there were plenty of rabbits running through the grass.

Therilli returned to her tent and fed the eagle some more bits of chewed-up meat, happy that at least she was starting to have enough strength to pick them up on her own. She even tried to stand up, but that seemed a bit too much effort-- her legs were shaking the whole way, and she quickly collapsed back down again.

“Nice try, Da’len,” Therilli assured her, patting her head. “But take your time.” She frowned down at the eagle, then her pack, realizing that she couldn’t just leave her at camp while she went on patrol.

She shuffled around her tent, grabbing some spare skins, furs, twine, and some strips of leather, and worked quickly to fashion them into a bag/harness of sorts-- enough to hold the bird and keep her from thrashing about and getting tangled, but also with some appropriately sized holes for her talons to remain free and not get caught in the fabric. It was hideous, but it would work for now, until the eagle had enough strength to stand on her own. 

The eagle gave a great number of protestant chirps as Therilli carefully tucked her into the harness, then sat the harness on top of her pack’s place on her shoulders so that the bird could peek around at her surroundings.

“There. Now you can see what I’m doing without getting yourself stuck in anything.”

The bird pecked at the back of her head.

“OW!” She turned to glare back at the eagle, which glared back at her. “You probably drew blood, you awful little beasty. Your beak is _sharp!”_

She shook her head and hurried forward through the camp, ignoring the looks the clan was giving her for carrying a golden eagle on her back like a baby. And yes, it was still chirping irritatedly at just about every footfall as she moved. But she couldn’t afford to delay much longer-- she was already quite late to start her patrol, meaning she would possibly also mess up the intricate web of timing and organization that dictated the various scouts’ paths around the camp. 

Eventually the eagle settled herself in her harness, returning to sleep, Therilli presumed, as she crossed over the stream and into the grasslands, around a particularly wide chasm, and then toward the farmholds, far enough into the fields to disappear among the stalks of wheat.

She found a small watering hole and stopped to set up her rabbit trap, the eagle waking up just long enough to lean over her shoulder and chirp judgementally.

“Oh hush, this is much less risky. Even if I _was_ an archer, I wouldn’t waste an arrow on a lousy rabbit, anyway.”

The eagle chirped again, and Therilli reached into her belt pocket to retrieve another slice of meat and chew it, spitting it out onto her palm and reaching back to hand it to her companion.

The eagle tore it out of her hand, swallowing it loudly.

“Ow! Gently, Da’len! You could have really hurt me if I hadn’t been wearing gloves. Next time I won’t give it to you unless you take it _nicely_.”

The eagle chirped, and Therilli shook her head and continued on, watching the grass always for signs of movement. Wild animals, darkspawn, humans… anything that could be a threat.

~~~~~~

The trap was filled when she returned, a rabbit stuck in the wooden box watching her with wild eyes as she reached into the trap with her hunting knife and sliced through its neck. Once the animal stopped moving, she held it up over her shoulder, careful to not let the blood drip onto her splintmail armor. “See? Told you I’d get us some lunch.”

The eagle immediately began pecking at it, and Therilli reached up and pinched its beak, giving it a little shake. “Just wait, Da’len. I’ll get you some meat as soon as I get this little one dressed and cut so I can cook it.”

This was as good a spot as any to start a fire, with the watering hole having made a little clearing among the grass. She kept it small, so the smoke would be less likely to be seen from a distance, just enough to cook the little strips of meat she cut from the rabbit carcass. Some, of course, she didn’t cook at all, just handed back to the eagle and waited for her to pull them from her grasp. The first two or three times, if she felt the harsh snap, she pulled the meat away, which the eagle seemed to have Opinions about, but after a few moments she would try again. Eventually she seemed to take the hint and remove the meat from Therilli’s hand a bit more gently, at least enough so that Therilli was at considerably lower risk of losing her fingers.

Once all the rabbit was cooked, and even the bones picked clean by her hungry avian friend, she carefully removed as much of her trace as she could, gathering up her trap and washing away the blood and soot from the fire. Determining it acceptable, she continued on her patrol, still watching for threats, as always.

When she made her way back through the grasslands, though, she found her usual path across the larger crevices entirely gone, likely having finally crumbled into the depths below. She cursed, frowning at the now enormous obstacle in her path. “What do you think, Da’len? What is the shortest way around to get back to camp? East or west?”

The eagle chirped, nibbling at the braid tucked just behind Therilli’s right ear, and she shrugged, heading off toward the east. “Alright, we’ll see if you’re right.”

~~~~~~~~~

“Do you really have to bring that thing _everywhere_ with you, Da’Theri?” asked Zak’ri, Therilli’s hunting partner for the day, nervously eyeing the golden eagle’s perch on her shoulder.

“Until she’s fully recovered, yes,” she replied, amused by his discomfort.

“I just… I feel like she’s watching everything I do, waiting for me to screw up.”

“She probably is,” Therilli shrugged, holding a scrap of meat up to the bird on her shoulder. “She’s vicious, you know.”

“I can’t even tell if you’re being serious or not.”

Therilli just chuckled, pushing on into the grasslands. Truthfully, the eagle had been quite patient and gentle, after the first few days of recovery. Now that she could stand on her own legs enough for the harness to be unnecessary, she seemed much happier to accompany Therilli in the morning, even waking her up by tugging at her hair and chirping.

After the weeks that had passed, though, Therilli was somewhat surprised that the eagle was still even with her. She could move her wings easily enough, and much of her strength had returned, so there was nothing stopping her from flying away at any moment. And yet she did not. Actually, she seemed reluctant to fly at all.

But now Therilli had to focus on the hunt, to track down the herd of druffalo and bring one back to the clan for food and hide. 

They pushed forward through the grasslands, now moving wide around the chasms, finding piles of dung or hoofprints in mud that indicated that their targets were not far ahead. Therilli did this silently, not wishing the sounds of their voices to frighten their prey.

Zak’ri didn’t seem to have the same idea.

“So… Therilli… how did you enjoy the last summer festival?” he asked, fiddling with his bowstring.

“It was the summer festival. Enjoyable, I suppose, but nothing special. If anything, I was reminded of all the faces missing that I was used to seeing.”

“O-oh. Right. Yeah.” His face fell. Clearly the loss of many of their most talented Hunters was not the topic he’d been attempting to broach. “You’ve… been dancing in them, though.”

“Don’t we all?”

“Yes, I mean, but--”

Therilli put a hand over his mouth, cutting him off suddenly. She pointed out across the field, where an entire herd of druffalo was gathered. She squinted into the distance, trying to pick a perfect target, but this far away it was hard to tell. She flicked her head in that direction, still covering Zak’ri’s mouth, waiting for him to nod. When he did, she let go, stalking off toward the herd, careful to not let her footsteps fall too heavily in the dirt.

As they drew closer, she noticed that one druffalo was sticking closer to the center of the herd, but moving slowly because it favored its left front leg. Pointing to it, she saw Zak’ri nod again, and she gestured for the usual plan. She’d distract it, try to separate it from the rest of the herd, and Zak’ri would use his bow to strike it down.

Steeling herself for this, she reached back and patted the eagle’s head. “You ready for this, Da’len?” she whispered. “It’s about to be a bumpy ride, are you alright with that?”

The eagle nibbled lightly on her hair, and she shrugged. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

She charged forward into the herd, her shield clanging against her armor, shouting loud enough to launch birds into the sky.

The druffalo scattered before her, dozens of huge, hairy hides breaking away, the air filled with the sound of their panicked lowing. And her target, the injured one, was slower than the others, stumbling away from her. She had to be quick, though. Too slow and the herd would come back together into a circle, protecting their young from attack with their great horns. And she didn’t feel like being on the receiving end of that.

She felt the eagle’s weight lift off of her shoulder and was surprised to see her launch into the air, circling around the injured druffalo and then dropping, driving at its head with her talons.

Therilli was so surprised by the action that she actually stopped cold, watching this young bird attack an animal more than ten times her size. But she couldn’t stand stunned for long-- now the druffalo was coming straight toward _her_ , trying to escape the aerial onslaught.

“Oh sh--!” She hurled herself to the side, hoping there wasn’t a chasm there, but managing to avoid the charge of the druffalo, rolling to her feet just in time to see an arrow plunge into its heavy hide, right at its neck. It screamed, but could not take the time to appreciate its pain with the flurry of razor-sharp talons at its eyes. Therilli looked up and around, watching for the fellow druffalo, but this one now was so far isolated from the rest of the herd that it had been abandoned, forgotten.

She sighed, drawing her sword and muttering a prayer to Andruil, approaching the druffalo for the kill. This part was the real reason they sent Guardians on druffalo hunts-- completing the final blow against such a large, powerful animal was quite dangerous, especially when they were panicked. But she didn’t mind.

~~~~~~~

When the deed was done, Therilli wiped the blood off of her sword and put her hands on her hips, looking down at the eagle as she tore, self-satisfied, into the carcass.

“So you _can_ fly, can you?”

The eagle chirped, then went back to its meal.

After Therilli and Zak’ri hurried to cut apart the druffalo carcass before the meat started to turn in the late afternoon sun, to remove its hide and convert it into a sledge with which they could drag whatever meat they could not carry in the leather-lined pockets of their packs. And, of course, whatever the golden eagle had not yet eaten.

Darkness fell long before they were able to get back to camp, moving at a fraction of the pace they had taken in order to find the druffalo, due to both the weight and the greater distance. Some crevices they could simply step or leap over themselves were still too difficult to overcome with the sledge behind them. It slowed them down immensely, the moon high in the sky before they were even halfway through their return journey.

It washed everything silver, except the slight red glow of the embrium flowers. Grass that had once been gold was as silver as an old woman’s hair.

It was lovely, but frightening. The Hahren told stories of the creatures that lurked on the plains at night. Nothing so large or powerful as dragons and demons, but beasts that were simply… _wrong._ Twisted, malevolent. Red eyes that would watch you from the shadows of the wheat, unblinking, that she was warned never to look at directly, lest the creature grab her ankles and pull her into the depths, never to be seen again. Deer that were not deer, not quite-- they would seem normal until they would move closer and there would be something _wrong_ with them. Too many joints, too large, too… many things. And no one had ever found out what happened when you encountered the Not-Deer, since all who had done so had been filled with such a profound terror that they immediately fled.

Rational people explained these creatures as likely just animal corpses possessed by demons, but Therilli herself doubted it was that simple. Her people gave demons the fear and respect they deserved, but that which they gave these legendary monsters was a terror beyond demonic explanation. And Therilli didn’t feel like experiencing that terror for herself. Not when she had places to be. Though carrying an entire druffalo’s worth of meat was certainly no discouragement from attack.

“Hey Da’Theri…”

Zak’ri’s voice startled her out of her thoughts, enough to draw an unhappy chirp from the eagle sleeping contentedly on her shoulder, her talons embedded deeply into the leather of Therilli’s armor.

“Yes? What is it?”

“I meant to ask you about this… lots of times, but… how are you feeling? It’s been a year since… you know.”

“How _should_ I be feeling?” Therilli asked. “Can’t be much worse than anyone else in the clan. We’re all family, so missing five Hunters… everyone lost someone. Why should my feelings be special?” She reached up to stroke the eagle’s head, soothing it back into a full sleep while they walked. “I… try not to think about it, if that’s what you’re asking. I try not to think of the giant hole in my life. I just… charge forward, always looking for new places to explore, new beasts to hunt or monsters to fight…” she wiped a streak of blood from the eagle’s beak, smiling weakly. “...new animals to care for. If I always keep my eyes forward, it saves me from the pain I feel when I look back.”

“I’m… sorry. I know you and Rianeth were close. You two did everything together. I was always… kind of nervous to talk to you whenever she was around. I always felt like she’d gut me if I tried anything.”

Therilli blinked. “Why would you try anything?”

“I, uh…” Zak’ri looked away, almost stumbling over the cords of the meat sledge. “Nevermind. I just wanted to check on you. Since… we grew up together, and… and I care about you.”

“I care about you, too, Zak’ri. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have any family at all after the Blight. Like so many do. Without the clan… I’d be lost. I don’t know if I’d have a purpose.”

“R-right. The clan. Your family.” He shook his head, straightening with a smile. “I don’t know about that, though. You’re much better with people out in the world than I am. I’m always afraid to wander too far from the clan, but you even get _humans_ to like you! Do you think you’ll ever leave the clan someday?”

“I… I’ll always be a Lavellan. But… I don’t know. Maybe I do want to see the world. Grandmother used to tell me stories about Antiva, before she came to Clan Lavellan. Glittering ocean views, shadowy elven figures who were as charming as they were deadly, the heat of the summer sun… I suppose I do wish to see it, feel it, hear it.” She paused, smiling. “But there’s still so much to see in the Free Marches, first. And our clan’s travels allow me that.”

“And first you’ve got to take care of your eagle, right?”

“I’ve already said, she’s not _mine_ \--”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Days passed. Weeks passed. The golden eagle grew only stronger, healthier, heavier, so much so that she was more effort for Therilli to carry on her shoulder. And, with some coaching by Therilli, she was getting better at hunting, too. Though thankfully she had developed a distinct aversion to nugs.

Recently, Therilli would amuse the clan’s children by tossing chunks of meat into the air and watching as the eagle flew to snatch them up, looking quite pleased with herself when the children laughed and cheered.

She wasn’t exactly agile-- her great wings were meant for soaring, not weaving and plunging through the air-- but she had developed a great deal of elegance in her movement, through practice. Much like a lady who learns to dance in a beautiful ball dress. There are first many days of stepping on her own feet.

She was able to catch a wide variety of animals across the plains, from mice to even a young bambi, though she’d been unable to carry it back to Therilli, instead opting to return to her shoulder and nibble on her hair until she agreed to follow her back to the kill. But she did always come back. Her talons had well made their mark on Therilli’s armor-- the deep divots in it now as much part of what made it recognizable as the sparrows-in-flight pattern across the breastplate.

Standing in the center of the camp, Therilli smiled as she watched the children dare each other to pet the eagle, then nudged Zak’ri. “Hey, can I borrow your bow and an arrow? I want to show you something.”

He blinked at her. “What? But we all know your aim is terrible, Da’Theri.”

She smacked his shoulder, snatching away the bow he held out to her. “Yes, thank you for _that_ , Zak’ri. I don’t _need_ to aim, thank you very much.”

She shook her head, removing an entire dead field mouse from her food-just-for-the-eagle pocket and speared the body onto the end of the arrow, drawing back the bow. “You ready?”

“I guess…”

She aimed the bow high into the sky, loosing the arrow with a _twang_. The moment it was free, she saw the eagle’s head snap up, and she burst upwards with a rush of air, blasting the children with it as she rose into the sky, whirling around and dropping, snatching the arrow out of the air with her talons and diving back toward the ground, landing at Therilli’s feet and happily tearing into the dead mouse, the arrow still clutched in her talons.

Therilli waggled her eyebrows at Zak’ri, who only stared down at the eagle, stunned. But before she could start bragging about the success of her stellar rehabilitation program, she felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see the Keeper scowling at her. “A word, Da’Theri.”

She nodded to Zak’ri, who took his bow back from Therilli and took a pair of children by the hand, back to the Hahren. Once the Keeper and Therilli had a relatively comfortable circle around themselves without people-- though the eagle decided it preferred Therilli’s shoulder as a place to finish its meal-- the Keeper crossed her arms, still scowling.

“It is time, Da’len. You must let her go, before it becomes too late.”

“But… I’ve never held her.”

Istimaethoriel’s eyes flicked to the eagle, then back to Therilli’s face.

“I _haven’t_.”

“An eagle is no _pet,_ Da’Theri. They are not meant to be trained or softened. She must not become dependent on you, or she will no longer understand herself. Am I clear?”

Therilli sighed, her heart already heavy.

“As a mountain river.”

The Keeper nodded, her expression softening. “She cannot replace your sister, Da’len.”

Therilli winced. “Nothing could.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Therilli stood at the edge of one of the largest chasms in the grasslands, the breeze tugging at her braided hair as she stared down to the bottom, actually visible-- just made of rock and sheer cliffs. And old, too. Unlike the others, roots and even shrubs had crawled out through the rock walls, filling it with green and brown.

Therilli reached up to stroke the eagle’s beak, her eyes watering when she heard the usual happy chirp.

“It’s time to go, Da’len,” she said out loud, though she wasn’t sure who she was really saying it to. “You know how to take care of yourself. You don’t need me to do it.”

Another chirp, and then the eagle was nibbling at her hair again, the tickling sensation comfortable and familiar.

She lifted her right arm to her left shoulder, where the eagle perched, and waited for her to step onto her gloved hand, for the familiar piercing of long talons.

“Come on.”

The eagle stepped onto her closed fist, watching Therilli uncertainly as she brought her arm down in front of her, the full splendor of a golden eagle shining in the sunset.

“You have to go, Da’len.”

The eagle chirped, tilting her head to the side.

“Come on, you’re not a nestling anymore. Go find yourself a mate, claim some hunting grounds… be free, be yourself.”

She clenched her fist tighter, steeling her heart for what she had to do. “Go!”

She threw her hand in the air, releasing the eagle over the chasm in a flurry of wings, which took to the air easily before reaching the bottom, soaring in a wide arc, up and around, before landing back on the ground before her, still tilting her head curiously.

Therilli dropped into a crouch, her head in her hands. “No, no, no, Da’len. You have to go. Fly high and free, the terror of the Wycome farmlands. Be everything you were meant to be.”

She nudged the eagle with her fingertips, back toward the chasm. “Go now. Please.”

The eagle looked at her for a long, long time, unblinking, peaceful, as if trying to send her a message she simply couldn’t understand. The sun faded behind her, the light shimmering on the first few golden feathers to poke their way through the dull brown crest.

And then she opened her wings and dove, rising out of the chasm and into the air, riding the warm autumn winds into the distance until she faded entirely out of view.

Therilli waited for her to return, for how long, she wasn’t sure. Moments, perhaps, but probably not. The last of the sunlight disappeared behind the horizon and still she waited. The moon rose and still she waited. The constellation of Draconis came fully into view and still she waited.

But the eagle did not come back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Therilli had come a long way from the clan’s encampment.

Or where their encampment had _been_. She was unsure where they were now-- the Keeper had only told her that she would inform her with magic once they had settled at a new location. But for the time being, Therilli was alone for a few days while she followed the trail through the wilderness.

A few days prior, a campsite had been encountered on the bank of the stream very nearby the Lavellan camp, the embers still burning. Since no Dalish would leave such obvious traces of a nightly campfire, they were certain to be human, and likely inexperienced in the wilderness at that. It was mere luck that the embers of the fire were not carried by the breeze immediately into the dry grassland.

While the clan hurried to move their own campgrounds in case they had been spotted, Therilli was tasked with tracking down and talking to this group of shemlens to determine if they were a threat.

This hadn’t been easy, either. What Therilli hadn’t known about the crevices in the grasslands was that they grew in size and number the further north she went, away from Wycome and further into the Weyrs, closer to Antiva. Not only did this make travel much more complicated, but actual tracking, too. The humans’ trail disappeared at almost every chasm, and it took her as much time and effort figuring out _how_ they’d gotten across as it did for her to figure out _where_. For a group so inexperienced out in the wild, they were certainly clever, Therilli had to give them that. Clever, or there was magic involved.

The closer to them she got, the more convinced she was that it was the latter.

Bridges of stone had been made across chasms where the only possible origin of the stone had been below, not above. Puddles of water were formed in perfect circles far away from any other source, and Therilli had often found their campfires only by the scorch marks left on the ground, rather than by anything burnt, including firewood.

But there was more about this place that intrigued Therilli than the traces left by those she was pursuing. Not because of their strangeness, but by their familiarity.

In a place where the surface met the deep, she’d expected to see, if anything, dwarven markings. Doorways to the Deep Roads, statues, runes… but she did not. Instead, what she found was… Elvhen.

This was no place for worship-- it lacked the wide halls, the pools of water-- but there were plenty of traces left by the ancient People. The remains of spiraling columns that had once supported roofs long since fallen into the widening chasms. Statues of the Creators scattered about, many just before the widest part of the chasms, the inscriptions on their bases worn off by time. Mythal especially predominated here, her draconic wings still visible even when the features of her face had been worn away. This was probably because of the stories of dragons and wyverns that populated the place. Some of which were not stories, Therilli knew. This was where her parents had encountered a High Dragon and perished fighting it. As it was, Therilli only knew because in the heat of battle they had told one of their fellow Hunters to run.

For this reason, she very much hoped that she found the humans before they fully descended into the Weyrs. Both for their sakes and for her own. She was not ready to face a creature such as that, especially not on her own. 

She was pausing to pull some dried druffalo meat out of her pack when she heard the screams.

A pair-- a man and a woman-- both shouting to some third member of their party. It was indistinct at first, but as Therilli spurred herself into a run, became steadily clearer.

“Erik, please! Please, you have to fight it!”

“Just come to mother!”

“Release my son!”

Therilli burst through a copse of grass, the scene finally revealed before her. Three humans, as she’d expected, following the trail. One man, one woman, clutching each other near the edge of the grassline, a good distance away from the edge of a chasm so wide it was a canyon of its own, staring in horror at the young boy standing just on the edge of the precipice, just in front of another Elvhen statue, this one of no god Therilli could recognize.

“What is going on here?” she blurted immediately, her hand drifting to her sword nigh instinctively, driven by the crackling of magic in the air. The man and woman jumped at her voice, but the boy only turned his head toward her slowly, his face sending chills down her spine.

He was vacant, all expression replaced by a dull green glow underneath his skin that leaked out through every orifice-- his eyes, his nostrils, his lips-- and the air seemed to warp around him, flickering with green light.

“An elf!” The man shouted, retrieving a handaxe from behind his back and leveling it at Therilli. “What do you want with us?! Is this your doing?!”

Therilli looked back and forth between the man and the boy, her hand still tight on the hilt of her sword. “I am no mage, Shem. I could not be responsible for this, even if I wanted to be. I have been tracking you since the outskirts of Wycome. To determine if you would be a threat to my clan. But your son…”

The man winced. “Aye, he’s a mage. We fled Kirkwall as soon as his powers started to manifest-- if you’ve never been to the Gallows, you wouldn’t know how awful, how strict it is… I couldn’t let my son live there like that-- and we’ve been on the run ever since. At first we thought we’d turn ourselves in when we got to Starkhaven, send our boy to the Circle there, where they are a bit more sympathetic to mages than Knight-Commander Meredith, but… the tower had burned down.”

The woman nodded, though her eyes never left her son’s face. “And after that… we just kept running. I don’t know where we hoped to go-- Rivain, maybe. We could eke out a living in the swamp-woods. But then our son, he-- he said he was hearing voices. We thought it was nothing, just effects of the demons in his dreams, which he’d often bested, but when we woke in the morning, he was here. And we can’t… he won’t…”

Therilli eyed the boy carefully, watching the way his lips were moving, shaping words, though no sound escaped from his lips. And then beyond him, to the odd statue-- a carved fist around which a serpent-like dragon curled, its fangs buried deep into the stone flesh. This, too, glowed both the deep green of the magic and the light blue of lyrium, illuminating the engravings across its surface from within. Hundreds of lines of elven writing, following the curves and bends of the statue, spiraling around shimmering runes, which whispered images the more Therilli looked at them. Runes for “memory” and “victory” and “faith,” which called upon visions of elves tearing through the landscape, battling against a foe that seemed to be the earth itself. The earth tearing itself apart as it was struck with great magics, powerful weapons.

Therilli squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, forcing herself to look away.

“Your son’s magic activated an ancient artifact,” Therilli confirmed, focusing for now on the non-mage parents. “The likes of which I’ve never seen before. How long has he been like this?”

“Hours,” the woman replied despairingly. “He won’t listen to us. We try to talk to him, but if he speaks, we can’t understand what he says.” She looked away from Therilli, back toward her son. “Oh, Erik, what have you done?”

Therilli sighed. “Alright, I’ll try to help your son.”

“You will?” the man asked.

“I make no promises.”

Cautiously, she made her way toward the edge of the chasm, her eyes never leaving the boy’s face. As she got closer, she could begin to make out the words he was muttering, snatches of words in Elvhen.

 _“I am one of the People,”_ she said in her language, her heart jumping when his head snapped up, those eerily glowing eyes now fixed on her.

 _“Ask your question,”_ he demanded, his voice empty. _“I will call upon the souls of those who have perished here. Come, let us grieve the fallen heroes together.”_

Therilli blinked, carefully putting the words together in her mind. Her Clan remembered about as much of their ancient language as most Dalish did, which is to say, not much. Most of the time they spoke the Common tongue.

_“What are you? What is this place?”_

_“Ask your question. This boy will give your answer.”_

She stepped closer to the statue, peering at the engravings. Some had been worn away by time, but were still in much better condition than the other statues in the region. But there were many words she couldn’t recognize, didn’t understand. She made out something about “memorial” and “Voice of the Lost.”

She tightened her grip on the hilt of her sword, putting together what was happening. The boy wasn’t possessed, not exactly. This was merely an enchanted object, this boy caught in the web of its spell.

 _“Release the boy,”_ she demanded.

_“Only volunteers may become the Voice of the Lost. I am no prisoner. I must only speak the word of release, and I am free.”_

Therilli bit her lip, hard enough that she could taste blood in her mouth. _“Then what is the word of release?”_

The boy was silent.

_“Tell me, what is the word of release?!”_

_“All Elvhen should know this.”_

_“But I_ don’t. _And you are not Elvhen._ ”

For a moment, the boy’s calm expression broke, and panic tore across his face. “W-what do you mean, you don’t know the word of release?! You’re an elf, right? A Dalish! Please, I didn’t know I would--!”

The green light deepened, flashing across his face, and his panic vanished back into the eerie calm. _“Ask your question of the Voice of the Lost. I will call the souls who died here to aid you in your path to Uthenera.”_

She was tired of listening to the enchantment’s words. The boy was afraid, she didn’t know the way to break the spell, and if he didn’t get free, he could dehydrate himself, starve to death, or worse.

The boy only stared at her blankly, and she reached to do… something, she wasn’t sure what. Shake the spell out of the boy? Pull him far enough from the statue to break its hold on him? But she never got far enough to figure it out. The moment her hands came within five inches of his shoulders, the green light coalesced around him and hardened into a shell of light against which her hand smacked uselessly.

She pulled her sword out of her sheath, remembering the way she’d pulled it from the bottom of the pool in the depths of a temple to the Creators, and silently prayed to Andruil to guide her blade. And to Mythal to protect her from the anger of her own people.

The woman screamed. “NO! You monster! Don’t you DARE kill my son!”

Therilli ignored her, launching forward, not to the boy, but to the statue, surprised when she felt no resistance. She saw… writings, memories… heard voices screaming as the earth heaved apart around them.

Demons rose out of the ground around her, and she spun with her blade, slicing through the shades quickly, grateful for her practice round with Merril. 

She danced around another set of claws, holding her buckler shield before her to take the blow, then spinning to kick the demon over the edge of the chasm. She didn’t take the time to watch it fall, though, merely jumped in front of the two humans and took another blow against her shield. She jabbed with her sword, plunging through shadows of spirit energy. Once enough shades were dispersed from around the humans, she pushed toward the statue again, just barely managing to dodge the fireball arced at her from the mage boy’s hands.

She wasn’t going to be able to fight all of this on her own, and it seemed like the shems were too afraid for their son’s life to be of any use. But this _wasn’t_ the boy’s fault, aside from his foolish curiosity. And she couldn’t blame them for wanting to escape the Circle.

She kicked off of one of the shades and hurled herself toward the statue, plunging her sword right through the neck of the curling dragon, through one of the runes she recognized as “memory”.

The lyrium in the statue pulsed, the green light spiraling rapidly around the place her sword had plunged into the stone, her momentum carrying her feet forward enough that her toes hit hard against the heel of the stone fist. She dropped, watching warily. Maybe it wasn’t enough.

The boy crumpled, the dark green energy dissipating from around him at the same moment as the demons sank back into the ground from which they’d risen.

The parents rushed forward, checking the boy for injuries, for consciousness, something, but Therilli didn’t have the luxury to watch for their responses. The green energy was still spiraling around her sword, absorbing the runes, the lyrium, the low crackle of magical energy rising into a hum, into a whine, into a screech as the stone began to crack, the serpent’s eyes glowing…

“WATCH OUT!” Therilli shouted, attempting to run toward the statue, her shield in front of her, hoping to pull her sword out in time.

The statue exploded in a shower of green, lyrium, and stone, blasting Therilli high into the air, the breath knocked from her lungs long before she began her terrifying freefall. Swordless, her stomach turned as the ground rose up to meet her, the humans quickly returning to their original size from the shrunken forms they’d taken as she hurtled into the sky.

But she wasn’t falling back towards them. The ground was too far away, she wasn’t going to be able to reach it. She tried to curl her way through the air, force the wind to push herself back toward the edge of the chasm, and not into it, like it was doing.

Down, into the deep, jagged scar into the earth, its cliff walls sheer and shining.

Still, she pushed herself, managing to dig her gloved fingers into the stone, screaming in pain as the sudden halt jerked her arm out of its socket, and suddenly her fingers lost their ability to feel. She plunged again.

It was dark at the bottom of the chasm, dark enough that she did not see when her fall was complete. She was already unconscious from the pain.

~~~~~~~

Therilli awoke with a groan, pain lancing into her sword arm as she attempted to lift herself off of the ground. Well, good thing she didn’t need it for sword-wielding, since that had _also_ been lost and/or broken in the explosion. Was this going to become a habit of hers? Going through swords like a carpenter through nails?

She managed to roll onto her back using her mostly-intact left arm, breathing deeply as she stared up at the crack of sky above her. So the darkness _wasn’t_ just her eyes being closed. She’d been _pretty_ sure it wasn’t, but it was nice to have confirmation.

Actually, it wasn’t _that_ deep, and the soil she’d landed in was actually… quite soft. Probably the reason not _every_ bone in her body was broken. As her eyes adjusted, she tried to determine just how far it was to the top of the chasm. Twenty… MAYBE thirty feet. In perfect condition, she could climb that, easily.

The problem being that she _wasn’t_ in perfect condition. As she lay there, she assessed herself for injuries. Her shoulder was dislocated, she remembered that. Easy but painful fix. The _real_ problem was the fact that it was definitely _also_ broken. She’d managed to land on it, it seemed, and just attempting to wiggle her fingers in that arm caused fierce pain. That would be tougher to fix. She probably had some bruised ribs, too, but as far as getting out of this situation, those were less important to worry about.

She flexed her left hand, feeling her fingers dig through what felt like thick moss, probably what had cushioned her fall. And then her toes, lifting her right foot, then her left one. Finally her head and face, finding a trail of blood leaking from a nasty gash in her head and into her eye, probably another reason for her darkened vision. Aside from that, the broken right arm, and some pretty nasty bruising, it seemed like she was fine.

Still without getting up, she felt along her armor for cracks, dents. The steel had held well enough, but she could feel a large dent right in one of the joints that was pushing the metal into her skin as she moved. But again, less of a problem right now.

Finally she sat up, taking a few deep breaths to prepare herself for what she was about to do. She wasn’t going to be able to work with the bone until the pain of the dislocated shoulder was dealt with. She pulled a hunk of dried meat from her belt pocket and shoved it between her teeth, then grabbed her wrist with her left hand, held it out straight in front of herself, and yanked.

She bit down on the meat hard enough to split it in half, but it at least saved her the further injury of a bitten tongue or cracked teeth. She carefully chewed the rest while the spots cleared from her vision, swallowing as she planned her next move.

Right, she had a couple of elfroot potions in her pack. Those would at least take care of the pain and the more minor injuries, like ligament tears around the shoulder, until she could get to a healer. Since it seemed like the mage boy and his parents were _not_ coming to help her.

She flipped open the pack, digging through it with her left hand and finding her prepared stash of bandages artfully wrapped around the elfroot potions to keep them safe.

Unfortunately, the glass flasks had not handled the fall much better than Therilli’s arm had. One was completely in shards, the liquid long since seeped into the cloth bandages that had been meant to protect it. The other, at least, had only lost _part_ of its glass, and there was at least a little bit left in the flask.

She sighed, carefully pulling away the glass shards with her gloved fingertips and sliding the flask out of the bandages, tipping the last of the elfroot potion between her lips.

She waited for the familiar feeling of warmth, relaxation as her muscles and tendons knit themselves back together. And it was _there_ , but faint. Getting the bone in the arm back together was _definitely_ too much to hope for.

She dug about for a stick or something to use as a splint, but eventually settled for her sheathed hunting knife, which also meant that she’d be weaponless, except for her shield. At least the bandages soaked in elfroot potion were soothing against her bruises.

Her injuries as tended to as she could make them, she looked up at the sky again, wondering how she was going to get out of this. She didn’t know what creatures lived down here, and she wasn’t sure she _wanted_ to know. Especially not what happened when night fell. But she hadn’t explored this far north until now, and all she’d seen of the chasm had been from the surface, expanding apparently miles in either direction. She had no idea how to get out, or which way was closer, or--

She heard a chirp.

Her head snapped in the direction of its origin, peering up the chasm walls.

More chirping, so familiar and yet-- how could it possibly?

The bird descended from high above the crack, landing on her left shoulder and nibbling at her hair, just like she had always done. Maybe it was the blood, but Therilli’s eyes suddenly felt quite wet.

“What are you _doing_ here, Da’len?!” she shouted, her voice echoing through the chasm. “I told you to find your own way!”

The eagle only chirped, hopping down from her shoulder into the moss and staring up at Therilli, her golden eyes shining in the half-light of these depths. 

Therilli stroked the bird’s well-developing golden crest and sighed, calming herself. “Not that I am unhappy to see you. But why return _now?”_

The eagle chirped again, lifting into the air and soaring around the top of the chasm, heading down a ways before coming back to her, alighting at her feet and then chirping, scratching at the ground.

“Do you… want me to follow you?”

Chirping in response, the eagle launched itself into the air again.

Therilli labored to get herself to her feet, thinking that her guess was correct by the eagle’s slow speed, and how, if she did get too far ahead, would circle back through the air and land on Therilli’s left shoulder, nibble on her hair for a moment, then go back into the air again.

Therilli followed as well as she was able, hoping that the eagle knew what she was doing. Not that she had much choice. In such unfamiliar territory as this, and injured, Therilli was probably lucky she hadn’t been eaten already, such as when she’d been unconscious. 

As she walked, following the wingbeats of the golden eagle, she kept her good eye out for any other movement in the base of the chasm, willing her breathing and pulse to remain slow and steady to prevent her internal bleeding as much as possible. Occasionally, she spied narrow cracks in the canyon walls, leading into blacknesses so deep it seemed as if all of existence would vanish within them. She did not risk them in the off-chance that they led back to the surface.

She listened for the telltale chirps of her friend, for the slithering of scales or the lumbering of great feet from her foes, knowing that she would be no match for them if they arrived. She was very much beginning to resent being sent on this mission alone.

Suddenly the eagle pushed itself higher into the air, disappearing over the edge of the chasm, leaving Therilli alone in the dark. And in only moments she heard the reason.

The first she saw of the creature was its eyes, a glittering red-orange, brighter than embrium. And then, as it moved toward her, she heard the sounds she’d been fearing to hear. Scales scratching against stone, claws tearing through the moss. It appeared into the light from the top of the chasm, its teeth yellow-white and dripping with saliva.

Therilli swore in all three languages she knew and lifted her shield in front of herself, well aware that wood and steel plating was probably going to do fuck-all to protect her against a fucking _wyvern._ As weakened as she was, one bit of spray from that mouth and it would probably be the end of the tale of Therilli Lavellan before anyone even thought it was a story worth telling.

One thing was very much decided: there was no way she was going to be able to fight this thing.

She searched her memory for the Hahren’s teachings about the many creatures of Thedas, how heroes of old had battled and survived, how Andruil had conquered them in her many hunts.

She watched the wyvern move through the shadows, its tail flicking behind it, acid dripping against the ground. She tensed her muscles, not taking her eyes off of it for even a moment.

It spread its proportionately tiny wings, its mouth open in a horrid, foul-smelling grin.

Therilli set her legs into position.

The wyvern launched itself at her, its claws open, grasping, as its wings aided its forward thrust, so fast that it moved in a blur.

She threw herself out of the way, screaming as she landed on her injured shoulder, but did not waste time on the pain, forcing herself to immediately roll to her feet as the wyvern’s momentum carried it full into the far wall of the canyon, burying its face into the sheer stone.

She heard the collision and felt the rocks waver underneath her, saw dust and stone crumble from the top of the chasm from the force of it, but didn’t wait to see if the chasm walls would slide down around her. She _sprinted_.

Her legs complained the whole way, but at least they were functioning. She passed pits of sulfur, flew by patches of ground empty of moss, but the wyvern was not distracted by her trick for long. She could hear it pull itself from the chasm wall, hear its heavy footsteps against the stone and moss behind her, monstrous and picking up speed.

If it charged her again, there was no way she could avoid it in time.

The moss under her boots was wet and slick, threatening to trip her. But she didn’t have the time to kick off her boots in exchange for the firm grip her toes gave her.

She saw a brown blur fly past her as she ran, straight at the wyvern, only barely recognizing what it was by the sounds that reached her a moment later.

And then the beating of massive wings, a sound that chilled Therilli. Leathery, more scales scratching against the chasm walls, but this time from _above_ , a shadow blocking out the light from the surface as the beast descended rapidly through the crevice after the eagle.

But before the dragon could reach the bottom, Therilli heard the wyvern roar.

She took the chance, screeching to a halt as she watched the scene unfold. The eagle swooping upwards with a frantic rush of wings, just out of reach of the wyvern’s jaws, too fast for the dragon. She watched as the wyvern puffed itself up to its full massive size, the venom in its jowls increasing in volume, its tail slamming menacingly against the chasm walls as it snatched at the dragon’s wing, tearing it down to the ground just before it landed.

The dragon roared, both the eagle and Therilli entirely forgotten by both beasts as they faced each other down.

The eagle, meanwhile, did a loop through the air and dived back toward Therilli, just barely managing to avoid the first swipe of huge claws, screeching at her as she landed on her shoulder, her talons pulling at the leather to pull Therilli forward as she took off again.

“Right, good plan,” Therilli admitted, bursting into a run again, still hearing the bellowing of the beasts long after she’d left the sight of them behind.

Eventually she had to pause for breath, her lungs spasming from pain and her throat scratchy from lack of air. She gasped, leaning against the chasm wall and wincing against the fierce ache in her right arm.

The eagle alighted again, this time on the ground in front of her, preening her wings while Therilli recovered her breath.

She looked down at her friend, raising an eyebrow. “Did you _plan_ for that to happen?” she asked.

The golden eagle only chirped, pulling at a few of her wing feathers.

“Wait, so you’re telling me that you _attacked a dragon,_ got its attention, then lured it to the bottom of the canyon, where it would get in the way of the wyvern, which would fiercely defend its territory?” She paused for another gasp of air. “Are you _insane?!_ I honestly don’t know if you’re the smartest bird I’ve ever met or the stupidest!”

The eagle chirped, jumping back onto her shoulder and nibbling at the pins in her hair, pulling one of them out.

“Hey!” Therilli shouted as one of her braids fell loose, tickling her neck. “Give me that! Are you actually a crow? Is that your problem?”

The eagle chirped again, then lifted into the air, circling lazily.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming,” Therilli replied, sticking the pin haphazardly back into her hair as she followed after the eagle. 

She actually wasn’t following her for much longer before the eagle began to circle in the air, waiting for her to catch up. Therilli came to a stop just before a massive break in the chasm walls, leading to… another crack, but this one shallower, leading right back toward the surface.

The eagle alighted on a boulder just before the edge of the chasm, chirping.

Therilli stared at the bird, then at her newly-discovered escape route, awestruck. “Da’len, you brilliant little--” She winced at the pain in her shoulder, unsure whether it was that or relief that was bringing tears to her eyes. It may have been both.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

About the time she arrived at the surface, many miles away from the path she’d taken in following the humans, she received the Keeper’s message in the shape of a butterfly formed of veilfire, fluttering in circles around her as she looked up at the risen stars to determine exactly where she’d ended up in relation to where she’d come.

Finally she reached out her hand and the veilfire butterfly landed on her fingertip, dissipating into green smoke as her mind was flooded with images of a copse of trees, a waterfall, and then a coastline. She could almost smell the scent of the sea.

She opened her eyes, blinking. “Ah, they’ve gone to the eastern coast. Halfway to Bastion.” She followed the stars toward the east, putting her good hand to her hip and sighing. “That means we’ve got a _long_ way to go before we get back to the clan.”

She looked down at the eagle, who was happily feasting on the carcass of a hare she’d managed to capture while Therilli had hiked out of the crevice.

“Da’len, can you do me a favor?” she asked.

The eagle straightened, blood matting her feathers as she looked up at Therilli quizzically.

“Can you go get the Keeper for me? I… don’t think I can make it back on my own, not all the way and not in this condition. I’m going to need healing magic, or some extra hands. Ideally both. But you’re the only one I can trust to reach them fast enough. Can you do this?”

The eagle chirped, and Therilli forced a smile. “Once you’re done eating, of course.”

She started a small fire just outside of the crevice, cooking the bits of hare that the eagle had left for her. Fortunately, she’d managed to find some elfroot plants on her way up the chasm, and chewing on that had alleviated her pain and seemed to have soothed her bruised ribs. Also, it was food that would help keep her strength up for the rest of her journey.

While she waited for the food to cook, she pulled some scraps of leather from her pack and removed a small stick of charcoal from the flames, waited for it to cool, then began to write.

_Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan,_

_I have tracked down the humans that so startled us. They were no threat to the clan, and will likely go to Rivain provided they survive their journey through the Weyrs, as I almost did not. I fell into one of the ravines and will need healing magic. Once you receive this message, please follow this eagle back to me, as I’m certain that is where she will guide you. I eagerly await rescue._

_\--Therilli._

As soon as the fire had died down, she curled the leather into a tiny scroll and tied it to the eagle’s leg, amused by how patiently the bird stood still while she affixed the message. That done, she patted the eagle’s wings, smiling. “I’m counting on you, my friend. Find the Keeper.”

And with that, the eagle rose into the moonlit sky, leaving Therilli alone in the wilderness once again.

~~~~~~~~~~

She’d probably made it about halfway to the waterfall when the clan finally reached her. It was all she’d been able to do to keep her broken arm from getting infected or further broken, and, fearing going to sleep from the absolute certainty of dragons and wyverns in the area, she was lightheaded and feverish from exhaustion. But still she walked, desperately hoping that her message had reached.

But then finally, out of the bright sunlight appeared a dark speck, alighting on her good shoulder and nuzzling her ear. She almost collapsed in tears right there, long before several pairs of arms found her amidst the wilderness, clutching her to their chests and chastising her for recklessness, cheering her success, crying from relief for having found her.

As the Keeper leaned over her injured arm, the red flesh cooling and the broken arm setting back into place under the delicate green glow of her hands, she pursed her lips at Therilli, scanning her face.

“You are lucky, I suppose, that that creature bonded with you,” the Keeper chided.

“I am. Please, Keeper, don’t make me chase her away. I owe her my life many times over, with no force on my part. She is… my savior. My friend. My…” she smiled, stroking the eagle’s feathers. “My guide.”

The Keeper raised an eyebrow. “You have decided on this, then?”

“You know, all the while I was nursing her back to health I tried so hard not to give her a name, to not think of her as a pet. But now it seems so silly. I feel as if it is a name she has earned: my guide.”

And so that became the golden eagle’s name:

Ghilan’Mir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those wondering: I couldn't think of a better description of a golden eagle's noises than "chirps." That's really just what they sound like. They don't really screech like falcons or hawks do.
> 
> Mostly this chapter is all about the Inquisitor getting the animal companion she deserves. Though she's not the Inquisitor yet. :P


	14. Cullen Rutherford- Connections

It was quiet in Kinloch Hold in the days following the Wardens’ departure, the clank of Cullen’s armor against the stone somehow louder than it ever had been before as he walked around doing… what, patrol? There was precious little left to patrol anymore. At least half of the Tower’s mages had perished already, either at the hands of abominations or because they had become them. Rooms that had been shining and neat were filled with cracked wooden rubble, most of which was simply getting burned with the funeral pyres rather than any attempt to make repairs. Just toss it all out, start over-- easier that than trying to rebuild while what was broken still remained.

No, he was well aware that he only continued on his constant route through the Tower because he deeply feared what dreams awaited him should he dare to sleep. He went everywhere except the room in which he’d been imprisoned, just outside the Harrowing Chamber. He always saw too many familiar faces there, even when the room was empty.

Some of his fellow Templars suggested he increase his daily dose of lyrium, that it would dull his mind, take the sharp edge away from the cutting blade of his memory, but Greagoir had refused to even consider the idea.

“With Orzammar closed our supply of lyrium is limited,” the Knight-Commander had answered, with a sigh that had become characteristic to himself. “And we cannot afford to antagonize the mages that remain by taking their stores of lyrium for ourselves. Not when the Grey Wardens who support them are the only ones likely to open Orzammar.” He paused, considering Cullen seriously for a long moment. “Nor can we afford to behave erratically, as high doses of lyrium may sometimes cause us to do.”

Cullen’s head ached, his eyes were dry, and he still felt weak in the knees from his many days without food, but he did not protest. Only accepted, returning to his “duties.”

Of those Templars who survived, few really _knew_ all that had happened in the Tower ever since Uldred had taken control. They had fled to the vestibule and locked the doors behind them, awaiting reinforcements before they razed the whole place. He did not disagree with them. In fact, he very much wished they had done so. But it also meant that they did not fully understand all that they were cleaning up, other than what the Wardens and the mages had told them. They carved the oozing flesh from the walls of the Great Hall with neutral faces, burned the bodies of the tortured with expressions of grief and regret but not horror. Perhaps they only really saw it when they looked into Cullen’s eyes. Maybe that was why they always avoided his gaze.

As gruesome as his work was, he hated how menial, repeated it was. No matter how aggressively he attacked the blood splatters on the floor with the scrub brush, the thoughts plagued his mind. Memories, visions. He would close his eyes and they would only intensify, attuned to the rhythm of the brush against the stone. He would try to shake them out of his mind, but it was never enough. Perhaps if he could take his head off of his shoulders and shake it until the memories fell out of his mind like coins from a loosely tied purse… but he could not.

The Tower’s Chantry was the only place he could find rest, even as destroyed as it was, apparently ruined when the Warden woman had found a cursed phylactery and had to battle the revenant that had been sealed inside. 

But the Chantry’s priests had come quickly, quicker even than the Templars requested from around Ferelden to boost the tower’s depleted numbers. The new Revered Mother was kind and forgiving, her wisdom washing away the misery of his memories at least for a short time, reminding him that he became a Templar to protect the people, that such a cause was noble and just. But more than her kindness, he simply appreciated the sound of the Chantry. To be there, listening to the sound of the Chant, whether it be spoken, whispered, or sung. It was the only place in the Tower that was not eerily silent, allowing his mind to wander back to miserable darkness.

But he could not spend all his time there, neglecting his duties. It was time to go back to sorting through the personal effects of dead Templars and mages. Though it was a simple answer. The Templars’ belongings were almost always sent back to their families. That of the mages’ would simply be reabsorbed and redistributed among the Circle. 

He sifted yet another oaken staff into the pile and moved the rest of the splintered wooden furniture to the other stack for burning. An enchanted necklace. A hidden love letter. He didn’t want to think about either.

He grabbed as much of the burn-wood in his arms as he could carry and made his way down the stairs, planning to add it to the seemingly undying funeral pyre. But as he arrived, the great doors to the entry of the Tower flew open, the wind over Lake Calenhad sending a spray of frigid mist into the chamber.

In walked the woman he supposed had been his rescuer, her ginger hair windswept and wild, as much fallen out of her braid as remained within its coil. Immediately as she walked in, all mages and Templars turned their eyes to her, a mixture of fear, respect, and awe on their faces.

Cullen, himself, was stunned to see her out of her armor. The image of the woman with the orange hair in gleaming silver armor, pleading with him to _live_ … had become imprinted into his mind. She had seemed otherworldly, then. Coated in blood splatters and hardened by battle, but somehow still pristine. Now she looked simply… normal. A normal entirely out of place in the Tower, with its mage robes and Templar armor. Linen pants and leather boots, stays laced comfortably tight over her deep green shirt, all kept dry from the rain by her heavy riding cloak, which dripped onto the floor as she walked in.

Behind her she was flanked on either side by a smaller, red-haired woman and a dark-skinned elf, the latter of which Cullen recognized as one of the Warden’s companions when she had found him. Noticing Cullen’s gaze, the elf grinned and winked, and Cullen quickly shook his head and began making his way past them, out to the fire pit.

Irving, who officially remained on the ground floor of the Tower because he was to always be ready to answer the Wardens’ call (though Cullen suspected it was truly because the top levels of the Tower held as much terror for him as they did Cullen), opened his arms upon the woman’s entry, seemingly blind to the urgency with which she walked.

But his greeting was not yet out of his mouth when the woman released her message in a torrent of words, explaining with increasing speed all that had happened in Redcliffe. Cullen caught snatches of it as he walked past, returning from outside just in time to hear the heaviest of the news.

“Please, First Enchanter, the Arl’s son needs your help. To get rid of the demon I must either do this ritual or kill him. But without the aid of many mages and much lyrium, the only option is blood magic. And I cannot allow that, either.”

Avoiding Greagoir’s gaze, Cullen scoffed, “It always ends with blood magic, doesn’t it? You are wasting your time trying to save him.”

He’d muttered it under his breath in passing, but the woman had definitely heard him. She whirled on him, and he was suddenly aware of her full height and the glimmer of the magical sword at her hip.

“Regardless of how you feel about mages, this boy is a _child!”_ she snapped, her eyes narrowing. “One who didn’t know any better, who hasn’t received any training! A child who has been at the hands and the _mercy_ of a blood mage, which you so fear! But that boy acted in an attempt to _save_ his father-- he couldn’t have known he was calling upon a _demon._ Once he is saved his family will send him to the Circle, yes. They have no better option for him to be properly trained, as your Chantry so decrees. But just as I saved _your_ life, Ser Cullen, because of the potential you have to do good, so shall I save Connor’s.”

“If he has already given in to a demon then he will fail any Harrowing he attempts,” Cullen argued.

She looked at him for a long moment, then just… shook her head, water scattering onto the floor. “If you are not willing to be merciful, then _I_ will be. Even when they make such grave mistakes, the failures of children are truly just reflections of the failures of adults that were supposed to be caring for them. And in that case, it should be the adults that are punished, _not_ the children. Especially when the punishment is their lives. But I think Redcliffe has been punished _enough_ , don’t you?”

She spun back to Irving, her back to Cullen. “So? Will you help?”

Irving glanced between her, Cullen, and Greagoir, before finally nodding. “If the Arl of Redcliffe needs our help, we shall gather all the mages and lyrium we can spare and go to his aid, immediately.”

The woman nodded, and Irving swept away into the tower, calling orders out to the other mages with uncharacteristic confidence and clarity. Greagoir nodded to the woman, who only nodded back and looked around at the chamber, shivering slightly.

“I am going to go help the mages pack,” she suddenly announced to her companions, who only nodded, watching her stalk off behind Irving.

With the Warden gone, Cullen found himself in the awkward situation of not really knowing what to do with himself after getting thoroughly yelled at. Again. But the red-headed woman that had accompanied the Warden to the tower was now staring at him curiously.

“ _What?_ ” he asked her, his face pinkening from embarrassment.

“I only wonder why you are a Templar, Ser Cullen. You seem to have a talent for irritating our dear Esfera. Until now, I thought Zevran was the best at doing so.”

From the corner, where the elf was leaning against the wall and wringing out his blond hair, came the reply, “now now, Leliana, there is no comparison to what I do.”

Ignoring the elf, Cullen crossed his arms and replied, “I became a Templar to protect people.”

Leliana raised an eyebrow. “And mages do not count as people?”

He looked down at the ground, clenching his fist. “I thought they did, once.”

Before the woman could say any more, he hurried back through the Tower, because suddenly digging through painful memories was much preferable to those rogues’ critical gazes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At first he was relieved when he watched through the windows of the Templar’s quarters as the last ferry carried the mages across Lake Calenhad, reaching the shore where the distant figures of the Warden and her companions atop their Ferelden horses awaited them. Their departure meant fewer mages to be wary of, but more than he cared to admit he was relieved to finally be free of the Orlesian bard’s critical blue eyes.

But his relief was short-lived. If the Tower had been quiet after Uldred’s death, it was bitterly silent now that all but the Tranquil, most ancient senior mages, and the youngest apprentices remained.

By now, much of the Tower had been cleaned of its gruesome past, the books reshelved, the blood scrubbed away, the flesh cut down, the bodies burned, the magic purged. He’d thought that with it gone, he may start to feel a little bit more at ease, that the Tower could go back to the way it was before all of this misery had happened, but he realized quickly that it was foolish to hope for such. Uldred’s insurrection was intimately tied to the Blight, and _that_ still yet raged.

He did not see the Blight in the Tower, though, not directly. He had not seen a darkspawn firsthand, only heard the stories from the new Templars to arrive in the Circle. But here, he only noticed the absence of the mages, as if the whole Tower was a set of lungs caught in a deep inhale.

But now, with nothing left to clean up and so little left to guard, he felt as if he was doing nothing more than pacing, like a Mabari in a kennel. He would go mad if he did not have something to do. 

After running drills in the Grand Hall for the fourth time that day, Cullen decided that he had had enough. He went up to the Knight-Commander’s quarters, knocking brusquely then waiting for an answer.

He heard a muttered “enter” and pushed the door open, not expecting to see Greagoir leaning over his desk wearily, his head in his hands.

“Knight Commander… is everything alright?” he asked, uncertainly.

Greagoir sat up, tearing his gaze away from the map unfurled on his desk. “Ah, Cullen. I hope you are recovering well from your trials.”

“As much as I believe I could be,” Cullen answered. “But, respectfully, Commander, I believe… there is more that we should be doing. While we spent our time recovering, we have been neglecting our other duties as Templars.”

Greagoir tapped his fingers against his desk. “You mean searching for apostates.”

“Yes, Commander.”

Greagoir sighed. “Cullen, if we are to be servants of the Maker, then we must show just as much mercy as the Maker does. I know being here in the aftermath has been hard on you, that your memories are incomparable. I understand if you wish for a duty that would take you away from here, from the source of your misery. But what you ask for is… unrecommended.”

“We cannot huddle in our Tower while apostates and blood mages endanger innocent lives!”

Greagoir held up a hand, and Cullen remembered his rank, choking on the rest of his words. “We do not have the numbers nor the lyrium supply to face both apostates and darkspawn. And with the battle in the Bannorn allowing the Blight to spread rapidly… you would undoubtedly encounter the latter. It is a risk we cannot take.” He pointed down at the map, where it seemed as if someone had spilled diluted ink all across southern Ferelden. “Furthermore, we cannot afford to make enemies of the Wardens, few as their numbers are. As the Crown loses allies, the Wardens gain them. Lady Cousland is nothing if not persuasive, as you and I both know firsthand. Either with her voice or her fist. With the Blight rapidly approaching, it is the job of the Templars to _protect_ mages. If we move further against them, we risk being enemies against the Blight.”

He closed his eyes, sighing and turning to the window overlooking the murky waters of Lake Calenhad. “Ferelden is not the place for such eagerness, my boy. Not now. But I do agree, it would be unwise to keep you here.”

“What do you mean?” Cullen asked.

Greagoir turned back, smiling encouragingly. “Perhaps you could go to a different Circle. One where your drive for justice will be better appreciated, hm? I know Knight-Commander Meredith is still working hard to strengthen the Templar presence in Kirkwall after that unfortunate incident with the former Viscount. I can write to her for a transfer immediately. Unless you would prefer to stay in Ferelden? You have family in Honnleath, correct?”

Cullen nodded, but his blood was singing at the idea of getting away from this place. “I would be most grateful for the transfer, Knight-Commander. Do not concern yourself with my family. I will inform them myself.”

“Very good, then. I will tell you as soon as I receive a response. Until then, do try to get some rest, boy.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He knew as soon as the words were out of his mouth he was not, in fact, going to inform his family. He’d tried to write letters to his elder sister, Mia, dozens of times, but each time he had lacked the words to express himself. He didn’t know how much he should tell her about what happened, or even if he should tell her at all, lest she worry. He always ended up screwing the cap back onto his inkwell and leaving the roll of paper blank. 

Even now that he was finally leaving the Tower, his request for a transfer accepted and the ferry summoned from across the lake, he had not written his sister. He would write to her as soon as he arrived in Kirkwall, he promised himself.

But just as he was about to step out the door, one of the Tranquil stopped him, tapping him on the arm. “A message for you, Ser.”

Cullen blinked, gingerly taking the message from the woman and recognizing the curling lily petals of his sister’s favorite seal. He sighed, cracking the wax and unfurling the letter as the Tranquil shuffled away to deliver more messages to other Templars.

_Cullen,_

_Wonderful of you to inform us of how taking your final vows as a Templar went. No, just some coin sent home without a single word. I suppose I should expect no less from you. I have heard such terrible things from Lake Calenhad, though. Demons, abominations, even possibly the Rite of Annulment! The stories do not agree with each other, but it seems as if no one can, nowadays._

_Though if you ever decide to return to visit us, you will be surprised to see that the statue in the town square has disappeared. While we were sheltering from the darkspawn invading the town behind a magical barrier in Old Mage Wilhelm’s basement, a woman appeared, saying that she’d cleared out the darkspawn in town and we should gather our things and escape to Redcliffe, where the militia and the Arl’s soldiers could keep us safe._

_It was the strangest party, too. A hornless Qunari, an Orlesian bard, and an elderly Circle mage. I wonder if you know her? The mage, I mean. I didn’t ask her name, though. I was busy getting our family together and hurrying back to our house to gather as much of our belongings and supplies as we could carry. When we finally left the house, though, the statue in the town square was gone! The Warden woman had been asking Matthias for some kind of password. I wonder if it had something to do with that?_

_Anyway, I advise NOT visiting us in Honnleath for a while, unless you feel like wading through darkspawn, since we’re no longer there. That’s really the reason I wrote this letter, just to tell you we’re taking refuge in Redcliffe for a while._

_Do take care of yourself, and try to write if the mysterious compulsion arises._

_Your loving sister,_

_Mia._

During the first paragraph, he just smiled and shook his head, practically able to hear Mia’s voice chastising him for his failure at correspondence. But the further he went on the deeper his frown grew, trying to picture what she was describing. Mia played it off casually, but the idea of his family at such danger from the darkspawn left a knot in his stomach. And her description of the Warden woman and her strange companions… that sounded far too much like Esfera Cousland and her motley crew to be coincidence. But he supposed he now owed the woman twice over: first for saving _his_ life, and second for saving those of his family.

He tucked the letter away and walked out into the open door leading out of the Tower, letting some welcome, fresh summer air into the place.

Kester greeted him with grumbles when he reached the Towerside docks, still apparently a bit miffed at having his ferry confiscated during the Circle’s turmoil, though it had been returned to him as an act of good faith. Still, almost as soon as Cullen climbed into the boat and Kester pushed off of the dock, Cullen felt as if he could breathe easier. The air smelled clean and crisp, flooding his lungs so quickly it was almost painful. He had forgotten what fresh air smelled like, so accustomed had he become to the stench of death.

He almost wouldn’t believe that a Blight was raging through the land, were it not for his sister’s letter, stowed among his belongings.

Once across the water and on the shores of Lake Calenhad, he knew he was officially on his own to get to Kirkwall. His travels were paid for by the Chantry, and he had been assured he had all the documentation he needed to reach his destinations without incident, but it was still a disorienting feeling to walk the road alone, unaccompanied by any commanding officer, mage, or fellow Templar.

Eventually he encountered a skittish trade caravan, promising them protection in exchange for a ride northeast to Amaranthine, an offer they happily accepted.

Unfortunately, though it was a relief to not have to travel alone, the caravan was adamant that they make several extensive stops along the Bannorn, selling their stocks of food and vegetables to the desperate townspeople. Cullen could hardly fault them for it-- doing so was their livelihood, after all-- but it meant that reaching the coast seemed as if it was taking a lifetime.

An unpleasant lifetime, at that. Cullen remembered the spilled ink across Greagoir’s map and had thought it represented the Blight, but he realized now it was simpler, but more saddening. The ink represented simple _devastation_. Not a darkspawn in sight, yet they passed by countless burned fields, abandoned villages, grass-covered hills and valleys made muddy by the feet of armies and the spilled blood.

He had heard, distantly, of the violence in the bannorn, but seeing it was another matter entirely. All these people dead because the nobles refused to accept the leadership of the most brilliant military mind in Ferelden!

They encountered other travelers along the road, and he listened closely for new gossip, especially anything about Redcliffe. From them, he discovered that Orzammar had chosen a new king, pushed along by the involvement of the Grey Wardens, who were being given an even greater reverence among the dwarves than they had before. If the Regent had been angry that his men had been denied entry to Orzammar before, he must be twice as furious now.

It was not until they journeyed through the quiet, veil-thinned lands of Highever that he truly began to understand, though. Here the crops were not destroyed, but the men and women who attended them looked down at their feet as the caravan passed. Here the hills were not muddied by battle, but the shepherds constantly herded their flocks away from the roads. It was a teyrnir inhabited by the same kind of fear and grief he’d expect from the blighted lands to the south, but without the same explanation.

When the caravan stopped here, it was only for a few hours in a small trading hub to resupply before they quickly continued east. When Cullen asked the leader why they were not heading north, toward the teyrnir’s city, he only shook his head and answered, “there is nothing but burned ruins and sorrow to be found in Highever.”

Arl Howe’s betrayal had left the whole land tasting bitter. He had promised Amaranthine’s aid and instead delivered slaughter, waiting until the Blight persuaded the noble Couslands to send Highever’s armies to aid in the south, leaving them vulnerable to betrayal. Now, with Highever’s forces devastated at Ostagar, and Amaranthine’s still at full force, there was little the people could do but accept their fate. 

“I had a sister in Highever,” one of the farmers told Cullen as the caravan stopped on his land to pass the night before pushing on into Amaranthine. “Used to say that the Couslands were the only family worthy of being called ‘nobility.’” He coughed a laugh. “She worked in the granary nearby the castle, keeping track of numbers and such. She was always good at that sort of thing. Didn’t stop Howe’s men from killing her, though. By the Maker, probably why they did. She always said that the Couslands were fair and kind, and the numbers showed it, whatever that meant. I had to go find her burned corpse myself to bring my family closure.”

Cullen blinked, stunned by the farmer’s frank words, but also remembering Esfera Cousland’s burning gaze, back at the top of the Circle Tower.

_Every single life is connected to others. Your life is connected to others, others who will grieve when you are lost. You have… have parents, siblings, friends… all who will mourn when they hear you are gone. Who will feel as if their world has crashed down upon them and nothing will ever be the same. If I can spare just one person that grief, I will do it._

When he was imprisoned by Uldred, he’d been shown visions of people he loved dying horrible, painful deaths, over and over again. Unspeakable horrors committed against his siblings that he could not stop, only bang against the magical wall onto which they were projected and scream. Childhood friends hanging from the gateposts of Honnleath, lifeless bodies swaying in the breeze. But it was not reality, though the images had felt real. He had been able to invoke the Maker and push them away. But this was real. The grief in this farmer’s eyes, that was real. And… Esfera Cousland, too. What was it like, not only to see everything you knew and love perish, but to know that when you woke up, it would still be true?

“There’s one Cousland still alive,” Cullen heard himself blurt. “The youngest. She’s a Grey Warden, now.”

The farmer put a finger to his lips. “Shhh, best not say that too loud around here. Howe’s men don’t want the common people to get their hopes up for a hero, y’see. According to the official story, all the Couslands are dead.”

Cullen stared at him, confused, and the old farmer only laughed again, smacking him between the shoulderblades with enough surprising force even through his plate armor that his breath left him. 

“But that’s Highever’s business! You just worry about them mages, eh?”

He strolled away, leading some of the caravan’s oxen over to a trough of water and leaving Cullen to attempt to sleep despite all the things he’d seen, both real and forced upon him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They were attacked by bandits not long after entering the arling of Amaranthine. Ill-equipped ones, who ran scared almost as soon as Cullen descended from the carts of the caravan to intercede, as he’d promised, but attacked all the same.

Considering Amaranthine had taken over Highever, he’d expected it to be better off than the neighboring teyrnir, but that didn’t seem to be the case. Crops grew, trade continued, but there was a general feeling of neglect to the place. Swamp waters risen over stone bridges, roads uneven and muddy, proud city gates crumbling at the edges.

Loghain had made Howe the Arl of Denerim, it seemed, and as a result had left his actual lands to ruin. Or so the people whispered as Cullen passed. Though many also claimed that he had never had much care for his people in the first place. But they quickly hushed whenever they saw soldiers bearing the crest of Amaranthine.

“Here is where we leave you, Templar,” the caravan leader announced, stopping in the center of the trade sector of the city of Amaranthine and looking around warily. “Andraste guide your journey to Kirkwall. May your distance keep you safe from all the troubles down here in Ferelden, eh?”

Though the man was smiling and his prayer seemed genuine, it didn’t seem to help the general feeling of unease that was settling in Cullen’s stomach. But he merely thanked the man for his generosity and continued on his way, preparing his documents for the port.

The city only got seedier as he walked, the wooden houses rotted and dilapidated. He tried not to look at them.

He’d been looking forward to the scent of the sea. He’d heard about it in songs, wondered about how salt water could fill a person with such longing, but when he finally reached the docks, with all of its shifty-eyed hustle and bustle, where a ship to Kirkwall was awaiting his arrival, he found himself utterly disappointed.

Fish. The ocean smelled like fish. Not all that different from the smell of Lake Calenhad or the rivers near Honnleath, actually. Though different _types_ of fish, he supposed. And the washed-up corpses of _things_ the sailors laughed and called “jellyfish.”

“More deadly than any darkspawn, even when they’re dried up like that!” they claimed, and he was honestly uncertain whether they were mocking him. More likely than not.

He was relieved when, as he made his way through the maze of docks, he encountered a scattered handful of other Templars, who explained that they too were being sent to the Free Marches, for one reason or another. Some of them were good-natured, too, asking him where he was from, how long he’d been a Templar, what kinds of things he’d done…

But others had haunted eyes. When asked, they only answered that they were “transferring” only because the Chantries to which they had been assigned had long since been burned by darkspawn.

Cullen didn’t fully answer their questions about his origins. Just said that he was from the Circle Tower and wanted to get out. 

They managed to follow their map to the pier where their Chantry-requisitioned ship was waiting for them, all relaxing a bit when they saw the swirling sun on a white flag, snapping in the ocean breeze.

A plank came down from a ship just before them, stopping them in their path for a moment. From it stepped a sailor holding a length of rope he quickly tied onto the pier, but just behind him were… elves.

 _Dalish_ elves, obvious from the tattoos spiraling in a variety of colors across the variety of faces, the odd cut and color of their leather and scale armor, the intricate bows slung across their backs.

They stopped cold as they saw the group of Templars below them, eyes narrowing at one of the younger, eager members, who stepped forward, his hand on the pommel of his sword.

“Careful, Knights! Mages hide among their kind!”

A young woman with darker skin and close-cropped brown hair sighed and stepped forward, her bright blue-green eyes landing on Cullen as he held out his arm to stop the other Templar from crossing the line.

“You’ll find no mages here. You may think us savages but we are not _stupid_ . We know that there will be Templars lying in wait for us. But while your regent has decreed that he’ll accept no aid from _foreign armies_ against the Blight, there is no law against paying passengers! Quite honestly, the fare to Ferelden is rather cheap right now.”

She spoke with a lilting, unfamiliar accent, a slight upturn to the corner of her lips that Cullen found especially irksome, for some reason.

“So why come here?” Cullen asked, remembering the various elven mages back in the Tower, how they had felt little different from the human ones. But few if any elves there had been Dalish-- most were from alienages, taken from their homes at childhood much like the humans had been. But these elves were different. Not from the strangeness of their clothes or their tattoos, but from the way they did not avoid his gaze. The height at which they held themselves. The wiry strength in the muscles under their armor. These were no Chantry-leashed mages. “Why come here when everyone else is fleeing?”

“ _We_ are here to answer the call made by the Wardens,” the elf woman replied, her gaze locking upon him. “Since your human armies would rather fight amongst themselves than destroy the true threat, the Wardens have no choice but to call upon the peoples that _you_ deem inferior. Brutes, heathens, Maker-forsaken savages. Am I on the right track? But _our_ people are all one, regardless of how scattered across the corners of Thedas they may be. The call began in the Brecilian Forest of Ferelden and echoed to our home clans.”

“I think I heard of that,” whispered one of the Templars Cullen remembered having come from South Reach. “They say werewolves were terrorizing humans and elves alike, and the Wardens somehow ended the curse and men were returning to their homes… men with inhuman golden eyes.”

He shuddered with that last adage, still staring warily at the group of elves. But their leader only snorted.

“Yes, that is how the call began,” she answered. “We are the gathering from the Free Marches, and this, this _scattering of thirty_ is what we have accumulated. Hardly an army.”

As she spoke, her voice rose, growing faster and more vitriolic. “We knew that we would not be welcomed when we arrived, nor would any other Hunters wandering into Ferelden from other lands to answer the call. But we are bound by honor and treaty to aid, regardless. While Ferelden nobility fight amongst themselves, _we_ shall turn our bows and arrows against the darkspawn, to protect the people _your regent_ has abandoned, your _Chantry_ has abandoned. Even knowing what humans think of elves, have _done_ to elves, _we_ are here to _help_ . Why are _you_ here, Templar?”

“How dare you--!” the Templar with his hand on his sword shouted, but Cullen felt himself stop him, without even looking, so entranced was he by the rage in this woman’s eyes. Rage and… accusation. Never once did she look away from Cullen’s face, as if, even without magic she was looking into his memories and seeing all of the ruined farmholds, the burned villages and crumbling cities, all the places Cullen had left behind without doing anything.

“Leave them be,” he finally said, nudging the other Templar to go around the plank toward their ship. “We will miss our own voyage if we dally here.”

“But--!” the boy began to argue, but Cullen just shook his head, still feeling dizzy.

He still felt the elf’s gaze on his back as they moved away, even as they boarded their ship, even as they set sail. Still heard the question. _Why are you here, Templar?_ Echoing in his mind to the rhythm of the ocean waves against the hull of the ship. 

He was there because he was running away, and somehow that strange, wild elf had known it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His own arrival in Kirkwall went without incident, the Chantry ship floating gently into a special dock separate from those that were overwhelmed by Ferelden refugees. It was a sobering landing, though. The great stone statues of weeping slaves, the winding city streets, all testaments to a time when this great city had been a province of Tevinter. Of mages.

For a moment, Cullen watched his countrymen spill out onto the docks from ships that should not have possibly been able to hold such numbers of human beings, but one of the other Templars quickly nudged him and reminded him that their new commanding officers would be waiting to greet them, and they could not delay. 

His first glance of Knight-Commander Meredith was just that-- a glance. She passed by the lines of transfers quickly, her face as unreadable as a statue inside her perfectly polished armor. She spared him no further glance, just nodded to the senior Knight and continued on her way.

They were released to settle into their quarters for the night, but with orders not to be late to report for duty the next morning. Some would be sent further into the Free Marches for their true assignments. But the rest were now citizens of Kirkwall, whether the people of Kirkwall were ready to accept that or not.

Cullen remained in the courtyard of the Gallows, his face turned upward to the sun, feeling its warmth on his face. It had always been cool and dim in Kinloch Hold, with its primarily windowless walls blocking both light and warmth from the midday sun. Comparatively, the Gallows felt like freedom, with its open columns and shining stone balconies. He’d gotten a little bit seasick while they made their journey across the Waking Sea, but now, hearing the waves beating against the rocks didn’t sound too bad.

When he did finally go to find his assigned quarters, he found the room already occupied, the man inside in the midst of preparing a draught of lyrium.

Cullen was unsure if he should leave. In Ferelden’s Circle, it had been considered polite to let fellow Templars take their draughts in private, but he did not know if the same rules applied in Kirkwall. He hadn’t been there long enough to notice any particular differences in culture.

But before he could close the door, the man looked up at him and smiled, friendly enough that Cullen felt his shoulders relax.

“I guess you’re the newbie, eh? Don’t you worry none, I don’t bite.”

Cullen made his way into the room, noting the sparsity of the decorations, belongings… anything, really. There didn’t appear to be much to tell him what kind of man this new person was.

“Samson,” he introduced himself, setting aside his lyrium philter and getting to his feet, stretching out a hand for a handshake. “Raleigh Samson.”

“Cullen Rutherford,” he replied, relieved for the settling sense of normalcy. “I’ve just arrived today, from Ferelden. I hope we can get along.”

Samson laughed, shaking his head. “Oh I suppose I’ll have to show you what it’s like around here, eh? Kirkwall’s a shady place and it’ll just eat up young lads like yourself. Get some sleep, no doubt you’re gonna be on patrol tomorrow so Meredith can feed you to the sharks. But don’t worry, I’ll help you out. I’ve been around longer than she has.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Unsurprisingly, Samson was right. After they helped each other get their armor on, they reported for duty and Cullen found that he was assigned to patrol in Lowtown, and based on the snickers he heard when his assignment was read out loud, he assumed it wasn’t great. 

As the various Templars scattered, Samson came up behind him and smacked him on the back jovially. “Told ya they’d feed you to the sharks. You might think Darktown’d be worse, but usually the people there are too broken down to bother pickpocketing. Come on, let’s see what fresh monstrosities we’ll see in Lowtown today!”

It was a short ferry ride from the Gallows into the city, one that sent a strange bout of nostalgia through Cullen’s mind of the Circle Tower in Ferelden.

Samson looked back at him as they landed on the city-side of the docks, raising an eyebrow. “You alright, there?”

“I… yes.”

“Homesick already, eh?”

“How did you know?”

He shrugged. “Just do. Now hurry up, we can’t have any Templars slackin’ or Meredith’ll have our hides.”

“Is the Knight-Commander really that strict?” Cullen asked, keeping pace with Samson as they made their way through the wide, inviting pathways of the Docks, which almost immediately changed into the narrow, twisting corridors as soon as they climbed the stone stairs into Lowtown. 

“Strict? I don’t think that’s quite the right word. The Viscount may be the person who sits on the throne in this city, but everybody knows who’s really in charge, and she don’t do it by being cute and cuddly.” He paused, waiting for Cullen at the top of the stairs. “Kirkwall’s no quaint fishing village, my friend. You lose your nerve, you lose your life, and Meredith knows it better than anyone. She runs a tight ship, no one’s denying that, but it’s better than a sinking one.”

“So you respect her, then?”

“I don’t feel any damn way about her. Someone’s gotta be in charge and Meredith’s it. The rest of us just follow orders.”

“Ah.”

They continued through Lowtown, Samson pointing out various structures as they walked, some landmarks Cullen should try to remember to look for should he ever get lost. “Remember the districts and you should have yourself sorted out in no time,” Samson advised. “Foundry here, alienage there.”

Cullen was so focused on watching where Samson was pointing, trying not to run into the infinite amount of clutter that seemed determined to get underfoot, he almost didn’t see the young child duck under his arm, plunging a hand into his belt pocket with deft, quick fingers.

By the time he _did_ notice, the girl had broken into a run, clutching in her fingers the single gold coin he ever kept on his person. It was a completely out-of-circulation coin, but one that his brother had once told him was lucky, and he still considered precious. 

“Hey! Thief!”

Before he could run after the girl, though, Samson had broken into a sprint, catching the girl by the collar of her dress and lifting her up into the air. “Now, now, you can’t go stealin’ from Templars, kid, even if they _are_ Ferelden. Hand it over.”

The girl pouted and dropped the coin into Samson’s waiting hand, not bothering to struggle in his grip as he gently set her back down. 

Before she could run away, though, Samson reached into his own belt and retrieved a single, genuine silver coin. “Now ain’t this what you’re after? You take this and stay off the streets, y’hear? If it was the City Guard that caught you they’d lock you up, and you’re too young for prison.”

The girl nodded, still staring unblinkingly at the silver coin as Samson held it out to her, snatching it from his fingers and immediately sprinting away through the city streets.

“Are you sure that was wise?” Cullen asked, still gazing after the girl’s path through the crowd.

“Ah, probably not,” Samson chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Maker knows she’ll think I’m a big sucker now. But in my experience, even in Kirkwall rogues don’t steal just for fun. That ought to keep her out of trouble for a little while at least.” He shrugged, grabbing Cullen’s hand and dropping the coin into his palm. “Best keep a better grip on that, eh? There are plenty of Coterie thieves with much softer fingers than that amateur little girl.”

“Coterie?” Cullen asked.

Sighing, Samson leaned against the wall and shook his head. “Boy, if you didn’t have a good mentor… alright, so every city has its big crime gangs, right? Well…”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Samson’s cavalier “lessons on Kirkwall” sounded made-up half of the time. The Coterie was one relatively believable thing, but a labyrinth of tunnels under the city? A shop of curios run by a seemingly immortal proprietor? It was all too bizarre to take seriously, and yet somehow inevitably always ended up being true, as he would gradually discover in the coming weeks.

Just before the sun was dipping into the sea and it was time for Cullen’s patrol to end, Samson was stopped by a young woman just before the entrance to the Docks, who he greeted warmly and patted on the back before she walked away smiling and Cullen returned to his side with the dinner he had just purchased.

“Who was that?” he asked Samson.

“Oh, a friend of a friend. Don’t you worry none.”

They made their way down through the docks, Cullen looking around with nervous curiosity as groups of people he had not seen during the day seemed to appear from the stonework, men with scarred faces and glazed eyes, even a glimpse of what seemed to be a Tevinter sigil on a piece of armor.

“Was that--?” Cullen began to ask, but Samson just shook his head.

“Trust me, boy, when you’re assigned day shift, you stick to day shift. You try to solve every problem in this city and you’ll be burned out and dead in a year. I’m not saying don’t do your job, but you gotta be smart about it. You ain’t gonna be a hero if you work yourself to death.” He gestured to the ferry and Cullen dutifully stepped in and looked back at the city as the ferryman pushed off from the dock, back toward the Gallows.

That night, Samson gave him the full tour of the Gallows, a much more comprehensive one than Cullen had received when he arrived, complete with exaggerated hand gestures and comfortable jokes. The mage quarters were larger than they had been in Ferelden’s Tower, but also much more crowded. Where there had been hardly more than a hundred mages in Kinloch Hold, here there seemed to be almost a thousand, all who looked at him nervously as he passed, despite Samson’s calm, open demeanor. 

“Ah, Maddox!” Samson called to a young male mage just as he was about to enter the library doors. The young man jumped, then seemed to relax when he turned to see Samson.

“Ah, Ser. I trust you have had a good patrol on this day?”

“Of course. Kirkwall’s women are lovely, of course. Though we only got to see Lowtown today.”

“Oh? Are they healthy?”

“As ever,” Samson replied with a smile.

Maddox seemed to brighten, then noticed Cullen behind Samson and gave him a polite nod. “Thank you, Sers. I wish your patrols always to go as smoothly. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must hurry to the library to gather some study materials before the nightly curfew.”

“Don’t spend all night reading again!” Samson called after him, shaking his head as he turned back to Cullen. “Obsessive over knowledge, these mages are.”

“Do you treat all mages with such… friendliness?”

“Not all. Some come into the Gallows as right pieces of work already. Those tend to get made Tranquil, though.”

“As they should. They’re too dangerous to be allowed to use their magic freely.”

Samson stopped, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe some of ‘em, but Maddox is harmless. Smarter than anyone you’ll ever meet, but I’ve never seen him do a spell that could do much more than singe your eyebrows.”

“They may deceive you, Samson. Some mages _act_ harmless, then release all the monsters of the Fade upon your unsuspecting men. You cannot treat them like people.”

Samson stared at him for a moment, then took a deep breath and rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, golden boy. Let’s just go to bed, eh? I think you’re still tired from your voyage.”

“I am not! This is serious! I--” he stopped short when he saw the distinctive glint of white-gold hair as Knight-Commander Meredith passed by, her blue eyes fixing on him for only a moment before she moved on.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That was the last time he actually went on assignment with Samson. In the days that followed, he found himself assigned mostly to the Gallows, to watch the mages for signs of threat. This he was unsurprised by. Samson _was_ , after all, the more senior Knight, with (apparently) just as much experience as Meredith herself. While Cullen remained a glorified guard, Samson disappeared frequently on missions away.

He met Orsino, startled by the First Enchanter’s severe, pinched face as he surveyed his fellow mages, yet soft, gentle voice when he spoke to new apprentices. He easily commanded the respect of all mages in the Gallows, working quickly to calm those who had most recently been captured. He was almost the polar opposite of Irving, really. While First-Enchanter Irving seemed to all that met him as unassuming, gentle, and compliant, but was more powerful than he let on, First-Enchanter Orsino had an air of authority that swept with his footsteps, and his power was clear from a worrying distance. Yet he was more gentle than this severe aura let on. But only with the mages.

Still, what surprised Cullen the most was the number of Tranquil here in Kirkwall. They were not restricted by many of the same curfews and surveillance that most mages were, but they were ever-present, floating through the Gallows without a word. He could easily go into a study-chamber full of mages and find that every single one had been made Tranquil.

Were it not for the mage children running through the corridors after each other, followed by scornful senior enchanters and beleaguered Templar recruits, or the screamed arguments between the various fraternities of mages, it would have been eerily, well… _tranquil_ in the Gallows. But alas, mages did seem to have a love for argument.

His duty to look out for disruptive or suspicious behavior kept him from boredom during these assignments, as whenever there was none of one, there was always some of the other. If the mages weren’t suddenly falling silent the moment he entered a room, then they were bursting into explosive arguments that stopped _just_ short of a full-on fireball match. It almost made him miss the arguments between the fraternities in Ferelden, the aged but stern and level-headed voice of Wynn leading the Aequitarians. 

But not too many days later, he received a summons to speak with the Knight-Commander in her office, an idea which thoroughly terrified him. Had he done something wrong? Was his work unsatisfactory? Had something happened back in Ferelden?

Her door was open when he arrived, her expression blank as her quill pen scratched viciously across a piece of parchment.

“Knight-Commander Meredith. You summoned me?”

“Ah, yes.” She set down her quill and gestured toward the chair on the other side of her desk. “Have you been settling in well in Kirkwall?”

“Yes, Commander. Everyone has been most accommodating, though I confess it has been a struggle getting used to living and patrolling in such a sprawling city.”

“You are from a small town, then? I confess, I know little about you save what Greagoir mentioned in his letter requesting you transfer here.”

“With all due respect, Commander, why do you want to know?”

She shrugged, leaning back in her chair. “I like to know about all of the men and women under my command. The people of Thedas sleep soundly knowing that there are Templars willing to sacrifice themselves in the fight against blood magic, but they are still people worthy of knowing. There is more to any Templar than a set of armor and a shield.”

Cullen blinked, not having expected such a friendly, welcoming attitude from the same woman Samson had referred to as “running a tight ship,” or who the mages in Ferelden had warned as “draconian.” Rather, she was easy to talk to, asking him basic questions, about his family, his life in Ferelden, her eyes lighting up when he mentioned the golem in the center of his hometown.

Only when she asked him about the events in Kinloch Hold did Cullen find his words drying up, his gaze skirting away from her own. “I… I was lucky to survive, Commander.”

Meredith stood up, her lips pursed as she turned away, looking out the window down to the Gallows courtyard. “I heard disturbing things about what happened in Ferelden’s Circle. Some from hearsay, some included in Greagoir’s letter about you. It is hardly a complete picture, but enough for me to be certain that, if it were me, I would have gone through with the Right of Annulment.” She paused, turning back to him. “But you were the only Templar who lived to see Uldred’s crimes firsthand. Is that why you wished to come to us, here in Kirkwall?”

“I saw the chaos that Uldred unleashed. I had desperately hoped that Greagoir _would_ go through with the Rite of Annulment, even if it meant that I would die. Perhaps because of it,” Cullen admitted, though he knew that he was still not giving her the answer she was looking for. 

Despite this, Meredith seemed to soften a bit, sitting back in her chair. “Few have such horrid face-to-face encounters with blood magic and remain sane. You made a good choice coming here, but I can tell that your memories haunt you. The lyrium helps dull their ferocity, yes? I may be able to increase your daily ration, if that will help.”

Cullen looked up at her, confused. “But I thought that Orzammar only recently opened its doors again. Can Kirkwall afford to be wasteful with its lyrium supply?”

She waved a hand dismissively. “You need not worry about such things. The Gallows has much greater stores than Ferelden’s Tower could ever hope to afford; we were never in any danger of running out.”

“I… thank you, Commander.”

She straightened, smiling. “Now, I have wasted enough of your time. You should continue with your patrol in the Gallows today.”

He nodded, rising to his feet and saluting her, before making his way out of her office, careful not to look into Orsino’s as he passed it, wondering how much of their conversation the First Enchanter had heard.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cullen wasn’t expecting his duties the next day to be… a pursuit mission. He’d been expecting another patrol of the Gallows, _maybe_ even another journey into the city, but _this!_ This was a proper assignment. Apparently a group of smugglers had been rising rapidly to prominence in the city, so quickly and with such success that they were heavily suspected for being assisted by at least one mage, probably more.

Cullen’s job, therefore, was to track down this smuggling ring, identify their magic-using members, and remove them from the public menace.

He stared down at the orders for a long while, his head spinning. _This_ was the kind of duty a more senior Knight would have been given. If he succeeded, he could rise through the ranks _rapidly_.

He stuffed the orders into his pocket, looking around at his fellow Templars, and hurried down toward the Gallows’ docks, ready to head into the city.

~~~~~

His first few days of searching were fruitless. He wasn’t very good at this whole “making connections” business-- he much preferred a more direct approach-- but such acts tended to get doors slammed in his face before he could even ask the questions. Or perhaps it was because he was Ferelden.

That was most likely a contributing factor. As he spent time in Lowtown and Darktown hunting for the home base of these elusive smugglers, he increasingly saw how the refugees from Ferelden fared. Almost all were beggars of some kind, downtrodden and hopeless, much like the people he had seen in Highever or Amaranthine. Escaping to Kirkwall may have salvaged their lives, but it seemed that the price had been their dignity. Few employers in Kirkwall were willing to hire them, and almost none of those that would were particularly legitimate. He suspected the rise in crime had more to do with desperation than anything inherent to his dog-loving people.

He suspected that only his identity as a Templar protected him from the same kind of disdain, and even that only just. Even when doors weren’t closed on his face, the citizens of Kirkwall weren’t particularly forthcoming about their underground crime rings.

By contrast, his first promising lead was among the Fereldens themselves. At first, upon approaching a group of drunks in Lowtown, they’d shied away from his Templar armor, but they’d brightened when they heard him speak.

“Oi, you’re Ferelden, ain’t ya?!” one of them asked, pointing his bottle at Cullen with a grin. “Nice gushy job bein’ a Templar, eh? Only way outta this shithole ‘sides crime.”

“Oh, yes. But I was a Templar before I arrived here,” Cullen replied, settling down next to the man who’d spoken, feeling a bit ridiculous but knowing that coming down to their level might make them more relaxed. “You said the only other way out of poverty for Fereldens in this city is crime, right?”

“Oh yeah, unless you get stupid lucky,” one of the other drunks remarked. “No jobs to be had, but the Coterie’s always hirin’.” He chuckled, taking another swig from his bottle. “Though a fellow as handsome as you might be able to get work at the Blooming Rose.”

Cullen felt his face heat up, even as one of the other drunks shouted, “too bad you’re butt-ugly, Gillie!”

They collapsed into fits of laughter at Gillie’s expense, rolling with it until one of them gagged, almost throwing up but managing to swallow it back down before he sat up again, wiping the laughter tears from his eyes.

“You look up to the ones who get out, though, no matter how you do it. Like that soldier-woman! Err… what’s her name, Floyd? Eagle? Osprey?”

“ _Hawke_ ,” corrected the man who Cullen supposed must be Floyd, a tinge of awe to his voice. “I heard she totally destroyed this group of bandits who were trying to start a revolt in the Gallows.”

“Yeah, her! Still lives in Lowtown, but she gave Lirene a whole _sovereign!_ Paid for my family’s bread for a week.”

“Lirene?” Cullen asked.

“Oh, s’pose as a Templar you don’t know much about what us poor Ferelden stock gotta do to survive. Lirene runs the Ferelden Imports store up the stairs by the market. Sweetest lady in Kirkwall.”

“And one of the most beautiful!” Gillie chimed in.

“Aw you just say that because you’re in love with her,” Floyd shot back.

“Damned right I am!”

“Well, she’s got a donation box runnin’ for all us poor refugees who can’t get work. She don’t get a lot, but it’s better than the nothin’ we get otherwise. But it’s a legitimate business-- don’t you even thinkin’ about telling the Guard she’s doing anything wrong.”

“I… wasn’t going to,” Cullen answered, feeling their suspicious gazes fade as soon as he said so. “But what about this… Hawke… woman? You said she got ahead, do you know how?”

They all shrugged. “Not the Coterie, that’s for sure,” answered Floyd. “They got more hits out on that woman than they got prostitutes in the Rose. I heard she killed ‘em all, though. That’ll teach ya to mess with a Ferelden!”

“Do you think… she’s a mage?”

They all burst into laughter. “With an axe that big?! Andraste’s arse, no way!”

They dissolved into garbled remarks about Hawke, all of which boiled down to what sounded more like legends than the acts of an actual person.

“I heard she bent a sword with just her biceps!”

“I heard she seduced a jewelry merchant out of his whole stock!”

“I heard she gets love letters from the Rose’s girls at least once a week!”

Shaking his head, Cullen excused himself from the group, deciding that this Lirene’s Ferelden Imports seemed like a more reliable source of information. Although these Ferelden drunks had been more welcoming to him than just about anyone else in Kirkwall except perhaps Meredith and Samson, he could be reasonably certain that whatever mage he was pursuing, they were probably Ferelden. The rise of this smuggling ring coincided just too perfectly with the surge of refugees.

~~~~~~~~~

Lirene was a bust.

She wasn’t particularly suspicious herself, but she hadn’t been particularly forthcoming with information, either. She confirmed that Hawke was a Ferelden woman now living in Kirkwall, but would say little else. Cullen suspected she knew more than she was telling him, but he doubted any amount of prompting would get any more out of her. She was a stalwart protector of the Fereldens, it seemed, and anyone who worked to help them.

He returned to the Templar quarters exhausted, sitting down beside some of his fellow transfers at the dining table, picking at his food.

“Have any of you heard of a woman named Hawke?” he asked them, still fishing for information.

They all snorted, and the man nearest him, Glenn, leaned on his hand and looked defeated, but enamored. “Ah, Naiyah Hawke. Smuggler.”

Cullen blinked. “She’s a _known_ smuggler?”

“Oh yes,” one of the female Templars replied, rolling her eyes. “Not that anyone can _prove_ it, but it’s pretty obvious. If you’re ever in the middle of patrol, and hear a massive crash, you can bet somehow Naiyah Hawke is going to be nearby.” she glared at Glenn, shooting a slurry of mashed potatoes at his still-dreamy face. “But she’s charming and beautiful, so _some_ people keep letting her go, instead of asking questions.”

Glenn grimaced at the mashed potatoes on his face, but laughed in Cullen’s direction. “Hey, arresting smugglers is the City Guard’s job, not ours. It’s not _my_ fault they can’t seem to pin any actual crimes on her, _Eliza_.”

Eliza scoffed, shoving her plate away. “Anyway, she’s just another Lowtown criminal, is what I’m saying. Supposedly an Amell, you know, that one noble family that gambled away their whole Hightown estate? You’d never know it to see her fight-- she’s about as noble as a Blighted rat.”

She got to her feet, grabbing her plate and scowling down at Cullen. “If the job you’re working right now involves her somehow, Maker give His blessing. Hope you don’t lose your breeches or your head.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cullen would like to say that it was his stellar investigation skills that led him to Naiyah Hawke, that he cleverly tracked her down by putting the bits of information together piece-by-piece, but to be completely honest, it was nothing of the sort.

The first time he met Hawke, it was very much a complete coincidence.

It was late at night and he was feeling good about the information he’d gathered, at least. Rather than Hawke, he’d uncovered a bit more about the smuggling ring itself, that it was run by an elven woman and its members could therefore frequently be spotted around the _vhenadahl_ in the Alienage, but that their headquarters didn’t seem to be _in_ the alienage.

Realizing that being Ferelden was starting to work to his advantage when it came to sniffing out the criminal underground, Cullen was starting to think that he was getting somewhere with this investigation, slowly but surely.

And that was when, as he made his way back toward the Docks, he saw the distinctive blue-white glow of magic just around the corner, followed by a loud _BANG!_

He hurried toward it, his hand on the hilt on his sword and his heart racing even as he heard a woman’s voice shout, “Andraste’s tits, Beth, do you think you could be a _bit_ more subtle?!”

There was another crash, this one more like the sound of metal against metal, and Cullen screeched to a halt as a man in splintmail armor came flying out of the alleyway and landing in a heap just in front of Cullen’s feet, a battleaxe the size of Cullen’s breastplate embedded in the man’s gut.

“That’s rich, coming from _you_ ,” another woman’s voice shouted back.

Just as he was about to turn the corner and see the full length of the alleyway, a woman with black hair and silver eyes came tumbling out of the alleyway, smashing directly into him with a _clang_ as her armor met his.

“WOAH!” she screeched, her eyes widening as the force of the impact sent Cullen into the wall, hitting his head against the stone brick and gritting his teeth against the pain. He was glad he was wearing a helmet. “Oh, a Templar!” the woman shouted again, gathering herself from the fall and snatching the axe from the corpse of the man from moments earlier, holding it out in front of her.

Cullen held his hand to his head, hoping it wasn’t bleeding. “Yes… a Templar.” He gradually took her in as he recovered from the ringing in his ears and the dots in his vision. And the more he took her in, the more the pieces came together.

_With an axe that big?! Andraste’s arse, no way!_

Well, the axe the woman was holding was certainly an impressive size, reminiscent of the ones wielded by headsmen.

_But she’s charming and beautiful._

The woman in front of him was certainly beautiful, it would be pointless to deny. Even with blood splattered across her face, she was striking, with her black hair a striking contrast against the dramatic crimson she painted her lips, the sharp angles of her silver eyes.

_If you’re ever in the middle of patrol, and hear a massive crash, you can bet somehow Naiyah Hawke is going to be nearby._

And here she was.

She bit her lip as she looked up at him apologetically, but before she could say anything another, similarly-armored man came sprinting out of the alley, his sword raised. She cursed, ducking out of the way and sticking her foot out so that the man tripped over it, unable to recover from the fall before she swung the axe down, blood spattering everywhere.

That finally dealt with, she removed the axe from the newest corpse and leaned on it, considering Cullen. “Sorry about that. Was a bit preoccupied with killing these fake guardsmen to look where I was going. What can I do for you, Messere Templar?”

There was something annoyingly sarcastic about the way she said “Messere Templar,” but he decided not to push it.

“I saw magic coming from this alleyway. I came to investigate.”

“Whaaaaat, _magic?!_ Nooooo, no magic here,” she replied, leaning against the wall, conveniently just in front of the entrance to the alleyway.

“Really.” Cullen remarked, his expression flatly unimpressed by her weak attempt at deception. “I can _sense_ the magic here.”

“Well it’s not _me_ , if that’s what you’re implying,” Hawke shot back, wiping blood from the corner of her mouth. “That would be _absolutely ridiculous.”_

Cullen rolled his eyes, pushing past her into the alley, which was… empty.

Well, empty of anyone _alive_. There were at least four bodies strewn across the stone-and-dirt pathway, each marked with either a large, bloody wound matching Hawke’s massive axe, or burns that looked suspiciously like those inflicted by lightning magic.

He looked back at Hawke, who was still leaning against the wall at the end of the alley, exaggeratedly investigating the finger pieces of her gauntlets as she waited for him to finish.

“These men were obviously killed by magic.” He pointed out, extremely irritated at having been unable to catch the mage responsible.

“Okay, so someone was doing magic. But it wasn’t me, and I’m the only one here, so I guess you’re in a bit of a pickle, eh Messere?”

“I can still turn you into the guard for murder,” he announced, knowing full well that it was a lie.

“For what? Defending myself against a street gang? There’s always someone gearing up to attack a young, _helpless_ woman like myself.” She batted her eyelashes dramatically, then laughed. “You know as well as I do that I just did the Guard a _favor_.”

“I _heard_ you talking to someone!”

“Then perhaps you’d better go to a doctor for your ears. I _did_ hit you pretty hard. Which I’ve already apologized for.”

“No, _before_ that! I--” he stopped, realizing that he wasn’t going to get anything out of her. He sighed deeply, moving past her out of the alley. “Very well; be on your way.”

She grinned at him before she walked away, only further confirming basically everything that he’d suspected: 

The smuggling ring _was_ being aided by at least one mage.

Naiyah Hawke was a member of the smuggling ring, and probably just as responsible for its rise as the mage was.

Naiyah Hawke _knew_ about this mage, and was actively involved in covering up her existence.

And, finally, Naiyah Hawke’s prominence as a member of Lowtown society was a very deliberate act-- with all eyes focused on her, everything else the smugglers did was entirely unseen.

And yet! Here he was, with no mage in custody, no proof of what was right in front of his eyes, and a resounding headache!

He shook his head, furious with himself for betraying the trust Meredith had placed in him by assigning him this mission, but resigning himself for the disappointing report he would have to write upon his return.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After submitting a report of such an abysmal failure as his, Cullen was certain that the Knight-Commander would give up on him, although she _had_ delivered on her promise to increase his allowed lyrium rations. He was sleeping a bit better at night, with the lyrium dulling the biting edge of his memories, but this only made him feel _more_ indebted to the Knight-Commander, and thus even more angry with himself for failing her.

Samson was gone when he returned to his quarters, as he usually was when Cullen returned from his duties. Apparently he was more of a night owl than most, and therefore happily took up late shifts. But it meant that Cullen rarely saw the man anymore, despite actually sharing a room with him.

He fell into bed and seemed to wake up a moment later, the sun already high enough in the sky for him to fear being late to receive his morning orders, rushing to put on his armor and sprint out to the courtyard, arriving _just_ in time to fall into line and the senior Knight to slap his orders into his hands.

He stared down at them for a moment, unwilling to actually unroll the parchment and see what was inside, fairly certain that he would be returning to guard duty here at the Gallows, after having thoroughly failed at apprehending the smuggler mage.

And yet… when he finally did, what was written was entirely different from what he expected.

_Cullen Rutherford:_

_Members of the Mages’ Collective have set up a base in Darktown, creating a meeting space for apostates in the city. Find it, inform the Order, and a team will be sent with you to capture the conspirators._

He stared at it, stunned. This… this was a _big_ job. Compared to weeding out a few mages buried in a smuggling ring, finding the Mages’ Collective could mean crippling resources for apostates in the city. It wasn’t the kind of duty you assigned to a fresh-faced Ferelden recruit.

He unfurled the parchment a little bit further and noticed the small, neat handwriting added to the bottom:

_You do not strike me as a Templar who fails twice._

_-Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard_

He felt his chest tighten, and he turned to look up at where he knew the Knight-Commander’s office to be and thought he saw, for a brief moment, her face in the window. But that might have been Hawke’s flair for the dramatic wearing off on him.

Still, she was giving him a second chance. Even though he didn’t deserve it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Before beginning his investigation, he first made his way to the Chantry in Hightown, hoping that the sounds of the Chant might put his whirling mind at ease, like it always had back in Ferelden.

The sheer size of the building itself intimidated him, the structure towering over even the most elegant, shining Hightown mansions, each of the huge golden statues flanking its entrance themselves almost as large as an entire Chantry back home in Ferelden.

But inside, the same Chant greeted him, the same warm, natural candlelight illuminating what parts of the statues of Andraste were not lit by the sun through the picture windows. It was a grand place, a shining place, much like all of Kirkwall’s Hightown was.

But it was a Chantry all the same. Cullen made his way to the foot of the statue, lowering himself to his knees, right next to a narrow-waisted woman with wavy black hair, who only glanced at him quickly before resuming her own prayers.

Cullen shut his eyes, praying to Andraste and the Maker to forgive him for his recklessness, to bless him with enough patience and guidance to fulfill his sacred duty, to stand before the wicked and never falter.

The woman next to him got to her feet, saying a final prayer before the altar, but something about her voice was familiar enough to stop him in the midst of his own prayers.

“Have we met before?” he asked, grabbing her arm before she could walk away.

“I don’t think so,” she answered, yanking her arm out of his grip. “Why?” she asked suspiciously, her eyes flickering to the face of the Grand Cleric, who seemed to be watching them with interest.

“Your voice, I…”

“Well, I’m Ferelden, if you couldn’t tell. Is that why?”

He stared at her face, trying to decide what it was about her that seemed so familiar. And then--

_Andraste’s tits, Beth, do you think you could be a bit more subtle?!_

He felt his eyes narrow through his helmet as he took in her face, recognizing the sharp angles of her eyes and the shape of her cheeks as those he’d seen in an entirely different face.

“You wouldn’t happen to be related to a certain Naiyah Hawke, would you?”

The woman stepped back, then slowly nodded. “My sister. Why, did she get in trouble again?”

 _Again?_ He thought, but only shook his head. “Not exactly. I apologize. May I ask your name?”

“Bethany,” she replied, still suspicious. “Now, ser, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really must go--”

_This woman was definitely a mage._

But he had no proof. As long as she wasn’t casting spells in front of his actual eyes, any accusations he made against her would look ludicrous. And as dangerous as mages were, he knew quite well that most weren’t stupid. She would never reveal her magic in the middle of a Chantry.

Cullen looked up at the Grand Cleric, then shook his head. “Well met, Bethany Hawke. Please, don’t mind me.”

She looked back at him one last time, then hurried out of the Chantry, her black hair shining in the sunlight as she pushed open the great oak-and-metal doors.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He managed to find the Mage’s Collective.

It wasn’t easy, involving several late nights and so many trips through Darktown that he was fairly sure the metal of his greaves was permanently stained red from the dust and feces littering the ground there. But he found them.

His connections with the Fereldens (especially the drunks, who people tended to forget existed) had been instrumental, as they gradually opened up to him, a little at a time. Things that they’d seen, people they knew. He found their hideout, reported back to the Gallows, and returned with an entire squad of Templars, under his _command_ … and got at least a dozen mages into custody.

It was a glowing success, one that had his fellows cheering for him for days.

As they returned to the Gallows with their captives, who either stared down at their feet in dejection or glared at Cullen with a ferocity that should have summoned a Rage Demon, Meredith was waiting for them, her helmet in her hands.

“Well done,” she remarked, her mouth twisting into the barest hint of a smile. “Failure is a greater teacher than any schooling.”

Cullen saluted, for the first time feeling as if he had done the right thing by coming to Kirkwall. “Yes, Commander.”

He was doing his duty to the Maker much better here than he had ever done in the Circle Tower. He was helping his fellow Fereldens, having recommended many of those who had helped him uncover the Collective’s hideout for the Order. This was his purpose, his payment for being unable to help back in his home country.

He wasn’t running away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As a reward for his success, Meredith named him her Knight-Captain. It was an immense jump in responsibility, but no one argued that he did not deserve it. He _had_ put in the work, after all, used connections no one else had been able to make. 

He was young, to be a Knight-Captain, he knew, but he also knew that Meredith would not take that as an excuse to shirk his new duties. He would now be in direct command of the Order in Kirkwall, and get to know as many of them as people as he could. It was his job to hand out orders, duties, punishments, even.

With his new promotion came a new assigned quarters, a full room and office space entirely to himself. When he went to retrieve his belongings from his former quarters, though, he found that Samson was gone.

And not in the way that Samson was usually gone, with his bed made but his armor polish and sword-sharpeners still proudly displayed upon his desk, but… gone. The room had been entirely cleared out of his presence, laid bare for the next Templar to take his place.

“What happened to Samson?” Cullen asked Meredith after depositing his belongings into his new office.

“He has been stripped of his shield and his position in the Order for having violated his vows to the Chantry,” Meredith replied, not even looking up from the letters she was writing.

Cullen reeled, still thinking of Samson’s patient voice as he explained all of the odd quirks about Kirkwall, his fingers pointing out landmarks, the sound of his snoring while Cullen tried for the thousandth time to write a letter to his sister.

“Samson, really?”

“You know that he was soft on mages. As your capture of the Mage’s Collective has clearly demonstrated, that is something that we cannot tolerate.” She sighed, glancing up at him. “Do you not agree, Knight-Captain?”

Cullen swallowed, then nodded. “Of course. Pardon my curiosity.”

“Now that you are Knight-Captain, you shall be far too busy taking care of the men who _remain_ Templars to worry about those who have betrayed them. Goodnight.”

It was not until much later, when he passed Maddox in the halls and noticed the brand of the sun on his forehead, heard the absence of emotion in the former mage’s voice, that Cullen really found out what had happened. Samson’s sympathy toward Maddox had cost him his position in the Order. Foolish recklessness.

He had been foolish, Cullen knew, but he still felt… regret.

Samson had been a good man. Soft, and manipulated by the wiles of mages, but a good man nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my description of the smell of the ocean comes from a personal vendetta against “ocean breeze” scented soaps. I’ve been to the ocean. It smells like fish. Tropical breeze, too! You know what it smelled like?
> 
> ...fish.


	15. Alistair (Theirin)- Rings and Wrongs

Their welcome to Orzammar was about as warm as the mountain air around the dwarven city’s great gates. First there had been the mercenary band lying in wait for them. Then there was the merchant, Faryn, who Esfera threatened to allow Sten to rip the arms off of if he did not divulge the location of Sten’s sword. Then there had been Loghain’s messenger, Imrek, demanding an audience with the Assembly by order of the Ferelden throne. 

Though it had been amusing to watch Esfera ignore Imrek entirely in order to present the Grey Warden treaty to the dwarven gate guard and ask for entrance. When it was granted, Imrek looked so insulted Alistair feared his face might explode, but one piercing glare from Esfera underneath her brand new dragonbone armor and the man ran back to Loghain with his tail between his legs.

There had been some positives in the mix, though. For one, they met a merchant in the shantytown outside of the gates who Esfera identified as her former economics tutor. After a warm reunion the dwarf had happily told her all he knew about what was happening in Orzammar, why trade with the surface was closed off, and the news wasn’t good.

And then, and _then_ , they got into the actual city just to see a dwarf murdered in front of their eyes for some kind of small insult! This was insanity!

“This… might be worse than I thought,” Esfera admitted as she watched a group of dwarven servants hurry over to carry away the still-bleeding body.

~~~~~~~~~~~

After a brief discussion with the disgruntled captain of the guard, Esfera told the group to split up and gather information about their options for a butt to put on the throne. Though they were all rather strongly encouraged to be on their _best_ behavior. Though what that meant for, say, Morrigan and Shale, Alistair was completely unsure. 

As the party split up-- all looking around in awe at the grandeur of the towering stone columns, the square-cut but intricately carved statues, the heat of the lava falls contained by runes inlaid so delicately into the stone that they seemed at a glance only decorative-- Alistair watched Esfera, the frown that seemed to deepen in her expression with every step she took into the city, her fingers drifting absentmindedly through Cookie’s fur as the dog kept pace with her.

“You know, I always wondered about the _height_ of the Deep Roads and dwarven cities and the like. For a race of small people, they sure _love_ their high ceilings. I always imagined hitting my head on the ceilings when I was a child. I wonder if they’re compensating?”

He heard Esfera snort and smiled as she paused to turn back and roll her eyes at him, but regretted nothing. It was worth it to see her frown disappear for only a moment. 

“You don’t have anywhere you want to go see, Alistair?”

“Oh I want to see all of it, but something tells me I soon will, whether I want to or not.”

“Most likely,” she chuckled, making her way down the side of the Commons, passing various stalls of root vegetables, lichen-bread bakeries, and enchantment emporiums before finally coming to a stop in front of a jittery dwarven merchant with a quivering lower lip.

“What a marvelous assortment you have!” she remarked with a smile.

“O-oh! Yes, look at them, please! Worked the ore m-m-myself!”

“Are… you alright? I hope I didn’t frighten you.”

“Oh, n-no, no. I only-- there are so many of you! And I’ve never seen one of _those_ before. The things they come up with… what was I saying?”

Esfera blinked, following the dwarf’s gaze down to Cookie. “‘One of those’… you mean a dog? Are there no dogs in Orzammar?”

“Is that what they’re called? Hmm. Oh, I’m sorry. Got a little lyrium in my blood while working the ore and I’ve been a little unsteady ever since. B-b-but only my mind! My hands are still the steadiest of any smith in Orzammar!”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that!”

“Oh, never you mind, Surfacer. Can I interest you in this lovely mirror?”

“Not for _me_ , but... “ she dug out her coin purse, scowling as she hefted its weight in her hands. “I know just who would love this.” She counted out the listed thirteen silver coins and smiled as she nestled the mirror into the bandages inside her pack, then continued perusing the shop while the lyrium-addled dwarf remembered to introduce himself as Garin.

Alistair remembered Bodahn Feddic, back at camp, suggesting that perhaps his son, Sandal, had been lyrium-addled, as an explanation for his oddity, but now that he met an actual lyrium-addled dwarf, even Alistair could tell that there was something _different_ about Sandal.

But whatever. While Esfera perused Garin’s collection of expertly-made weapons, Alistair wandered over to a neighboring stand to purchase a roast potato and some dried meat, glancing back at Esfera just as her wandering fingers came to rest on a small glass case enclosing a single golden ring, inlaid with a glittering crimson ruby.

“What is this?” she asked, the frown on her face melting into delighted curiosity.

“Ah, I see it isn’t weapons you’re looking for today, Surfacer. You have a good eye!” Garin cheered, lifting the glass case up to the light. “This is the Lifegiver, too delicate even for my hands to craft.” He chuckled. “It’s Tevinter in origin, made by a powerful blood mage, they say. B-but don’t let that discourage you! Whatever its origins, this ring has instead given strength to _many_ heroes, its magic protecting them from harm. Wore it m-m-myself for a while-- it even closes your wounds faster! But the sensation was so odd I just couldn’t stomach it.” He took it out of the case and held it out to her, the ruby catching the torchlight and gleaming. 

Alistair watched, fascinated, as Esfera gingerly took the ring from Garin’s hands and examined the runes delicately engraved into its golden surface, gently running her fingers over the inlay. He had never seen Esfera express much interest in jewelry before-- she wore only the pendant made from the blood of her Joining, he noticed-- but by the wonder on her face, he could tell that she _wanted_ that ring.

“Such magic…” she muttered, glancing back at Garin. “How much?”

He beamed. “Eight-thousand, seven-hundred eighty-eight silver.”

Esfera scowled, still staring at the ring, then sighed resignedly and handed it back to Garin. “It is worth the price, certainly, but nothing I can afford at this time, I apologize.” She turned back to Alistair as Garin wiped off the ring with a cloth and returned it to its case.

“Come on, we should stock up on lyrium potions before we meet Shale at the Shaperate.”

Alistair nodded, looking back at the ring one last time before following her back through the Commons.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

They regrouped just outside of the entrance to the Diamond Quarter, though some party members had not yet returned from wherever they had wandered off to. A helpful Dwarven servant warned them that traveling alone is dangerous during such chaotic times, and Alistair could only reply that any one of their companions could surely hold their own.

 _He_ was the one who answered because Esfera was, at the time, preoccupied by an excitable Dwarven girl apparently named Dagna, who Wynne had encountered while purchasing potion-making supplies.

“You… want to go to the Circle? Are you certain?”

“More than anything!”

Esfera sighed, staring incredulously down at Dagna. “I am no expert in Dwarven customs, but I am fairly certain that if you leave… you will never be able to return. Your family will have to forsake you because you have seen the sky. And if the Circle disappoints you, returning to the life you left behind will not be an option. I will see about putting in a good word with the Circle if you truly desire it, but you _must_ be certain this is what you want.”

“Oh there’s not a doubt in my mind! Please, please, _please!_ I know I can contribute to the study of magic, bring a unique perspective! I might miss my family, but I know I’ll regret _not_ going when I had the chance _soooo_ much more!”

Esfera sighed again, then looked up at Wynne. “Very well. I have a feeling we’ll be in Orzammar for a while. Could you please, Wynne? Irving will listen to you.”

“I will do so,” the mage replied with a smile.

“Cookie, Sten, you should go along, too. We can’t have Wynne traveling all the way back to the Tower by herself.”

“Very well,” Sten replied in his usual tone, which seemed to imply that he did not care either way, although it was immediately followed by “though I do not see how this helps us defeat the Archdemon.”

“Along the road, I expect you to be watching the Darkspawn’s movements, taking care of any that come too close to intact villages. We can’t face the Archdemon if the Horde decimates our armies before we can gather them,” she replied, staring him directly in the eyes.

After a long moment, Sten nodded. “Very well. We shall return quickly.”

“Thank you.”

Once the trio departed, Esfera frowned as she looked over the remainder of the group. “Where is Leliana?”

“No idea,” Zevran shrugged. “She said something about pig-bunnies and headed deeper into the city.”

Esfera shook her head. “Alright, tell me what you’ve all learned.”

She listened patiently while her companions told her all about Prince Bhelen and Lord Harrowmont, some information gathered by asking and listening around the city, some gathered by… acquiring some important documents from difficult-to-access places.

Bhelen didn’t have the most promising reputation, most notably that he had apparently assassinated his oldest brother, Trian, and blamed it on his sister, Mirra, who was subsequently left to die in the Deep Roads as punishment. Add onto that his apparent aggression, curiosity about absolute rule, and general shadiness… he wasn’t the most _honorable_ pick but, as Zevran pointed out, easily the _stronger_ choice. And with a Blight to face, they could not afford weakness.

Also, documents indicated that Bhelen really _did_ have a Casteless concubine, and seemed to have genuine affection for her, providing evidence for his claims to want to improve the lot of such people.

By contrast, Harrowmont had a more glowing reputation, filled with prowess as a political and military leader. He would maintain Orzammar’s power and grandeur, even though the former Dwarven capital, Kal-Sharok, was recently found still inhabited.

 _BUT_ , his nobility was tied tightly to traditionalism and isolationism, believing that Dwarves had survived this long on their own against the Darkspawn; they didn’t _need_ surfacers, let alone those interfering in their ways. Not the most inviting idea for a group attempting to recruit Dwarven allies against a Blight on the surface.

Once they were all finished, Esfera accepted a chunk of roast potato from Alistair and chewed pensively before swallowing, leaning back against the stone railing, and crossing her arms.

“So basically, what you’re telling me is that we have nothing.”

“Well, maybe so far,” Alistair attempted. “We still haven’t heard from Shale or Leliana yet. Maybe they’ll have something that will tip the scales.”

Esfera smiled at him, straightening. 

“Yes, if anyone can get information it is Leliana with her charm and Shale with her stunning personality.” She laughed, pushing open the doors to the Diamond Quarter. “But in the meantime, I think we should try getting as close to our king-elects as we possibly can.”

They looked around at all of the glorious estates soaring high into the cavernous underground, the contrast between these and those just in sight of the Commons not lost on Alistair. It reminded him of Denerim, honestly, empty mansions looming over crowded hovels.

But at least in Denerim the town below was still _visible_ from the windows, despite the nobility’s attempts to the contrary. Here, sealed off from the city below, he wouldn't be surprised if the Dwarven nobility sometimes forgot the lower castes existed at all. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say.

He was in no position to judge the Dwarven way of life, though. Nor was he completely oblivious to the obvious analogy to the situation he found _himself_ in. Who oh who is a better candidate for the throne? Bhelen? Harrowmont? Loghain? Anora? Alistair?

But he didn’t want to draw the parallel to Esfera’s attention, not when he could tell how uncomfortable this situation was already making her. She was so uncertain, doubtful, hesitant, very much not her normal self, the woman who would charge through a brick wall, shield in front of her, without a moment’s thought. The woman who was good at politics through sheer force of will. He’d never before met anyone who could intimidate others into surrender just by sheer confidence that what she was doing was right. He couldn’t see that confidence now, though, and it worried him. If they did end up being the ones who settled the dwarven throne, he wasn’t sure if they’d be able to convince the right people of their choice without that unfailing certainty. If Esfera doubted herself, he was fairly sure it would make others doubt _her._ Not _him,_ of course-- he’d jump into Lake Calenhad for a chilly dip if she dived in first-- but others might. Others a bit less foolishly lovestruck than he.

Esfera came to a stop in front of an estate that a dwarven woman named Nerav Helmi had enthusiastically directed them to, insisting that they speak with Harrowmont’s “second,” Dulin Forender. Though Alistair still didn’t know what a “second” meant and at this point was too scared to ask.

She stood there for a while, staring up at the door, until Morrigan finally blurted, “are we going to enter, or are we simply going to admire the dwarven craftsmanship until the Blight ravages all of Thedas?”

“I… don’t know if I should knock,” Esfera admitted. “Is it polite to knock on dwarven doors? Is there a knocker? Some kind of apparatus to announce my presence? I do not want to be rude.”

Alistair fought a laugh. “Should… we ask?”

Just as Esfera turned around to examine the wide streets of the Diamond Quarter for a person to ask, the door swung open, revealing a rather nonplussed Dwarven… butler? Who ushered them in quickly, announcing them as Grey Wardens and their companions, honored guests of Lord Harrowmont. Esfera seemed confused as to whether she was supposed to take off the heavy fur-lined cloak she’d purchased for travel through the Frostbacks, since the butler seemed to be waiting for _something_ , though she was also reluctant to take it off. 

Not that Alistair knew any better than she did. If the Dalish back in the Brecilian Forest had been standoffish, it had at least been in an obviously (understandably so) suspicious and aggressive manner, compared to the dwarves, who seemed content in being angry that Surfacers misunderstood their customs without ever really trying to tell them what those customs _were_.

Finally, she admitted, “I apologize if my entrance is not the most polite. I do not know what the proper customs are in dwarven household; any guidance you can give me would be most appreciated.”

The butler blinked expressionlessly. “You must spin around three times, saying your name with each rotation, before you cross the threshold of any dwarven home.”

Esfera’s eyes widened. “Truly?!”

From behind the butler, a hand appeared, grabbing him by the ear and pulling him aside to reveal a different dwarf. “Of course not, esteemed Warden. But you should not show such blatant naivety outside of these halls. Other dwarves may not be satisfied with practical jokes.”

“I see,” Esfera replied, watching the butler quickly disappear into a side hall before turning back to their new conversational partner. “And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with now?”

“Dulin Forender. As you likely already know, I am the second of Lord Harrowmont, King Endrin’s own choice as successor, in whose estate you now stand. Word is spreading that the surface may suffer a Blight, Warden. It is shameful that we are not in a better position to help.”

“Orzammar has plenty of soldiers, and dwarven strength is renowned. From what I can see, it is leadership, and not strength, that Orzammar is lacking. Honor these treaties, and we may very well be able to defeat the Blight.”

“That may be, and that is a terrible risk _for the surface._ ”

There was a slight snide smile in his voice, one which reminded Alistair annoyingly of Morrigan, though he knew he shouldn’t say so when she was right there, shooting warning glares at the dwarf cold enough to freeze him. Which honestly wasn’t even one of her colder gazes. If it was, Forender would probably _actually_ be frozen. He didn’t doubt that Morrigan was capable of it.

But Esfera, for her part, was suitably offended. “For the sur--! Blights may empty the Deep Roads for the moment, but with the Archdemon at its head, they will hit Orzammar with renewed strength after they have fed off of _my people._ If the world ends tomorrow, _so do the dwarves_. You do realize that, don’t you?!”

“Even if the world would end tomorrow, Lord Harrowmont cannot ignore Bhelen today. He cannot afford to trust anyone of unproven loyalties.”

“Loyalty? I am a surfacer, I have no reason to have loyalty to either of you, not yet. You expect me to offer _my_ loyalty, without any demonstration of why I _should?_ Why Harrowmont, why not Bhelen?!”

Her voice was rising with her increasing emotion, and Alistair was a bit impressed with how well Forender was managing to keep his composure at all, though his snide smile had faded slightly. Esfera always somehow managed to seem _taller_ when she felt something strongly. Alistair could only imagine the effect was intensified from the perspective of a dwarf.

“We are not blind to your investigations upon entering Orzammar, Warden. Surely by now you’ve heard of Bhelen’s crimes. Would you choose to endorse a murderer as king over an honest man?”

There was a noticeable screech of metal against metal as Esfera clenched her fist tightly, even the dragonbone plate of her gauntlets groaning under the strain of her frustration. But then she sighed again and straightened, looming an amusing distance over Forender’s head. “How does Harrowmont wish me to demonstrate loyalty, then? If his cause is just, then he may prove himself a just leader.”

There was a barely-perceptible slouch to Forender’s shoulders as she asked, his relief visible, but only barely, and only at all because Alistair had been practicing noticing these kinds of things. You know, just _in case_ he got made king.

“To prove you are not working for Bhelen? You might attend the Proving today. The deshyrs take it very seriously. And unfortunately, Bhelen found some way to blackmail or intimidate House Harrowmont’s best fighters into stepping down.”

“And you want me to find out why.”

“That would be… enlightening, though I hope you won’t pry too deeply into things they don’t wish revealed. If you wish to show your loyalty, enter the Proving as his Lordship’s champion. With your order’s reputation, I’ve no doubt the ancestors would favor your arm.”

From Esfera’s other side, Alistair was surprised to hear Zevran suddenly burst into laughter, though the assassin had been unusually quiet the entire time they had been facing Forender. Well, unusual for his time accompanying them, at least. Alistair supposed he was _probably_ relatively quiet when actually assassinating someone. 

Esfera turned to blink curiously at the elf, who snorted, “this is to be your king? One who cannot keep his own men from running like frightened children?”

At this, Forender didn’t even pretend to hide his emotions. “Lord Harrowmont does not use threats or intimidation to lead his men” --There was a _not like Bhelen_ implied there somewhere, even Alistair could sense it-- “He leads by example!”

“Ah, I see, so it is _his_ example they follow as they _cower_ from this Prince Bhelen,” Zevran shot back.

“How dare you slander Lord Harrowmont!”

“The Warden is right. Why should we ally ourselves with someone too scared to even grant us an audience?”

Esfera lifted a hand and Zevran fell silent, though his continued critical gaze was starting to pierce the last remaining veneer of Forender’s arrogance.

“Enough, Zev. You have made your point. But remember that we are guests here.”

He nodded, stepping back, and Esfera considered Forender. “So you want me to fight in Harrowmont’s name, yes? In this… tournament?”

“Proving, yes. Bhelen would never work with anyone who humiliated him in that way. Harrowmont would have no fear of meeting with you then.”

There was a long pause as Forender fidgeted while Esfera considered him, before finally answering, “I cannot in good conscience pledge my loyalty until I have heard Bhelen’s claim to the throne for myself. Perhaps I will return. If I do, I promise to bring different company. Even with proven loyalty, I expect Harrowmont will still be nervous to meet me in front of a _professional assassin._ ”

Dulin Forender blanched. “An Antivan assassin?!”

But Esfera already had her hand on Zevran’s back, escorting the rest of their crew out the door without a final glance. Once they were across the threshold, Zevran asked, “Was there a reason for revealing my career before the whole house? I am less effective as an assassin when I am _known_ to be one.” 

Esfera smiled, but it was grim, stone-like.

“It was a test. I wanted to see how he would react.”

“And did this dwarf pass this test of yours?” Morrigan asked, picking at the dirt under her fingernails.

Her smile faltering, Esfera waited for the stone doors to close behind them before turning back to look at the looming estate.

“No. No he didn’t.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Their conversation with Vartag Gavorn about potentially supporting Bhelen didn’t go much better, unfortunately. Similar accusations, even, though including the point that “Harrowmont hides behind his reputation and sends spies and assassins.” But the difference was that Vartag Gavorn presented _evidence_ of Harrowmont’s treachery: promises of the same land to two noble families in order to secure votes in the Assembly.

They’d accepted the request to show the promissory notes to the relevant lords immediately, though Esfera’s eagerness had waned after asking Gavorn where he had gotten them.

“That’s not important,” he’d said. “If they ask, say you found them while searching the Shapers’ libraries for your treaty.”

She’d let it go at the time, but after they had paid a visit to the Assembly, observed the barely-avoided bloodshed, and met with Steward Bandelor, Esfera was reading the notes over and over again, her frown deepening with every step she took away from Gavorn, away from the Assembly.

“Is… something wrong?” Alistair asked.

“No… _yes_ . A great _deal_ is wrong. Did you hear what he said? That where he got these notes is not important? They are damning evidence of treachery, but I find it impossible for Gavorn to have come by them any more honestly.”

“But… you said that you would help.”

“Yes… I… did. But I find this whole situation detestable. Neither of them should be king, if they so lack courage that they would rather make the Grey Wardens do their dirty work than just face each other. I wonder if they are even capable of fighting their own battles-- perhaps the Captain’s idea of simply sending them to the Proving Grounds to fight their differences out themselves is not a bad one…”

Alistair laughed. “There’s probably a reason they didn’t choose that one. One of them would end up dead!”

“And in the meantime, dozens of dwarves are ending up slaughtered in their stead!” She clenched the notes tight enough to crumple them, then relaxed, attempting to smooth them out. “I just… wish we had a better option.”

“Me too. But maybe this is just how dwarven politics works. It’s not supposed to be a Grey Warden’s job to interfere in Orzammar’s way of life. We die down here, that’s all.”

“It’s not supposed to be a Grey Warden’s job to interfere in politics _at all!_ ” Esfera snapped, then softened, massaging the bridge of her nose. “I’m… sorry, my love. I am frustrated. Perhaps we should regroup with Shale at the Shaperate before I make any rash decisions.”

“I don’t know, your rash decisions have worked out so far.”

She smiled tiredly, her hand drifting away from her face and into his fingers as she walked. “You have more faith in me than I merit.”

“Oh no, I think you merit just the right amount.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sound of shouting greeted them the moment they entered the Shaperate doors, prompting Esfera to break into a run and hurry to Shale’s side, wading through a tide of curious, wide-eyed dwarves.

“Oh, _there_ it is!” Shale shouted, in a voice that sounded _almost_ like relief. “I was wondering what idle fancies it was distracting itself with. Canoodling, no doubt. Please tell these stupid dwarves that I have no interest in them climbing all over me like _birds_ in the name of research.”

Esfera turned to face the most well-dressed scholar, who Alistair assumed was probably the Shaper. “Please, ser, I am a Grey Warden, and Shale here is a… friend. They are not an object for study. They came here to have questions answered.”

“I see…” the Shaper nodded, and the various scholars dispersed, looking disappointed. “I apologize; I was simply excited to see a golem, when those of Orzammar have been lost for centuries. There is no record of one such as this in the memories. I did not realize it belonged to _you_ , Warden.”

“I _don’t_ ,” Shale replied warningly.

“Shale belongs to no one. I thought Orzammar’s Shaperate the most likely location for information about a golem’s history, hence I sent them here. But if, as you say, there is nothing here about Shale, I suppose I was wrong.” She turned to look up at Shale. “So I suppose you have not discovered much?”

“Oh, plenty. I have learned that dwarves are flesh-creatures almost as squishy as it. And that for all the wonders of my immortal stone body, it _is_ difficult to turn the pages of books without tearing them. Most inconvenient.”

Alistair snorted, but knew better than to look at Shale’s return glare.

Esfera nodded for the group to look around, which Morrigan seemed only _too_ happy to do, even showing Shale some passages from the texts while Esfera questioned the Shaper about Orzammar, the Memories, Dwarven culture… Alistair figured he’d better get cozy in some nook in the library while they talked. He’d learned by now that when Esfera had questions, she wasn’t going to stop until she felt satisfied.

Of course, getting cozy in a nook didn’t help very much since all of the books were in Dwarvish, which he couldn’t read. While he was looking for at least one volume that had been translated into Common, he almost ran into a downcast-looking young dwarven woman. “Oh… pardon me, were you looking for a particular volume? Not that I could really help. I, um, don’t know the libraries very well. I’m just doing some research.”

He asked about what she was researching, happy to have something to do while Esfera interrogated the Shaper, especially once the girl, Orta, explained her hope for information on her family. She lit up when he told her that actually _he_ was a Grey Warden, and they might be able to look for some records in Ortan Thaig for her. He found listening to her expound upon her family’s history a much more interesting use of his time than flipping through books about the Common Nug, at least until he suddenly heard Esfera shout from the other side of the library.

“These papers are FORGED?!”

Orta’s eyes widened and they both turned to watch what was happening, suddenly able to hear the whole thing now that they were paying attention.

“Not entirely,” the Shaper was saying, noticeably calmer about the revelation than Esfera was, her face turning almost as red as her hair with rage. “There were two promised deals, but their terms differed significantly from what is presented here. It appears the scripter altered the dates and locations of the agreements to make them look identical.”

Seething, Esfera asked, “And you say this honestly? I mean no offense, but I was told you are a relative of Lord Harrowmont’s and cannot be unbiased.”

“Unbiased? Go back six generations, and I am related to every noble house in Orzammar.”

Esfera’s eyes narrowed, her grip on the promissory notes threatening to tear them. “ _E_ _very_ noble family? Even the Aeducans, I presume?”

The Shaper nodded. “Of course.”

Through gritted teeth, Esfera replied, “thank you. I need to have _words_ with someone,” then spun on her heel and stomped out of the library, slamming the stone door behind her.

There was a moment of stunned silence as Alistair caught Morrigan’s eye across the library, and then both of them were scrambling after their clearly enraged leader, either to stop her from doing something she’d regret or to watch with amusement as it happened.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They arrived back at the vestibule of the Assembly just in time to hear Gavorn stammer, “Forged? W-well naturally they’re forged. There is no _legal_ way for Harrowmont to sell the same land twice-over, is there?”

Esfera, unsurprisingly, was not having it, drawing herself to her _full_ height (which, Alistair was constantly reminded, was even taller than himself), glowering down at Gavorn. “Tell me where you _really_ got these,” she demanded between her teeth, her hand drifting idly to the hilt of her sword, which was suddenly drawing Gavorn’s eye with its veins of glowing starmetal and flaming orange runes.

But he was braver than he seemed, Alistair had to admit. Despite the intimidation, he glared back at Esfera. “Fine. You want to know how the game is played? _I_ wrote the papers and left a sizable fee with the registry office to back them. But if you think figuring it out gets you off the line, you don’t understand how this works. I’m asking for a show of loyalty. So, exactly how much truth is involved shouldn’t matter in the slightest. Now, where does your allegiance lie, Warden?”

“My _allegiance?!_ You expect me to offer _my_ allegiance to a man who would lie in order to get his throne?! Can I trust the promises of any king who obtained his throne with only deceit?! How do I know he will not promise troops to my aid in order to secure _my_ allegiance, only to retract his promise when it suits him?! Forget it. If Bhelen’s claim to the throne is legitimate, then he should have no trouble obtaining it legitimately. _Honorably._ It is clear to me that this is not the case. I am sorry, but I cannot support your Prince as King. I will aid Lord Harrowmont. _Good day_.”

She tossed the promissory papers at Gavorn’s feet and whipped around, hurrying out of the Assembly hall. Behind her, Morrigan shook her head. “So we will choose the honest coward over the strong liar? ‘Tis a most predictable result, but… likely a foolish one.”

Alistair said nothing, but he was still stunned by how rude Esfera had just been. She’d _always_ been good with her manners, doubly so upon entering Orzammar, where she’d been tiptoeing through the unfamiliar Dwarven customs. But for once, it seemed as if she’d gotten angry enough to simply not care. Confronting her about it right now was probably a bad idea. Not that he was _scared_ of her, necessarily, but, well… she was in the type of mood that destruction, not conversation, would be the remedy to.

The moment Esfera rushed through the door, however, she had to screech to a halt to stop herself from smashing into Leliana, who was carrying a huge, ugly nug in her arms and sidestepped gracefully to avoid getting completely bodychecked.

Despite the hilarity of what just almost happened, Leliana’s serious, almost panicked expression didn’t change at all.

“Leliana!” Esfera shouted, stabilizing herself. “Where have you _been?!_ We were supposed to meet up hours ago!”

Leliana only hugged her nug tighter, looking back and forth between Esfera and Alistair. “There’s… something you need to see.”

Alistair watched as Esfera slowly took in Leliana’s expression, the red splotches fading from her cheeks as her rage turned to concern. “What… what is it? What have you found?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was hard to look at the scene before their eyes. Every direction he glanced he saw only more squalor. Piles of unwashed laundry, excrement and vomit in tepid puddles in the streets, crumbling ruins poor excuses for houses leaning far enough toward the ground that they seemed to carry the ceiling with them, for the first time fulfilling Alistair’s childhood conception of dwarf-sized living spaces. For some reason, he wasn’t excited about hitting his head.

And the smell… the smell was _excruciating_. It came from everywhere all at once, a rank, oily scent as bad as the darkspawn themselves. But he’d gotten used to the smell of darkspawn by now, foul as it was. There was no getting used to this stench. Not when you looked around and could see what made it.

He turned back to Esfera, to watch as her expression passed from surprise to disgust, to horror, to rage, then finally to sorrow.

“What… what is this?” she asked, her hand over her mouth. “Where are we?”

“This is what the Dwarves call Dust Town,” Leliana explained, kicking at a clump of dirt. “It is where the Casteless live.”

Alistair glanced at her, for the first time since they’d run into the bard back in the Diamond Quarter noticing the red dirt that clung to her armor, stained her hair an even deeper rust red. She’d been in Dust Town… probably the entire time.

He watched as Esfera steeled herself, her shoulders settling themselves even as her eyes watered, her feet moving herself through the city streets to face the dozens of beggars, many crippled by injury or malnourishment, all of whom begged her for surfacer gold. She obliged many of them, silver disappearing from her hands almost the moment she held it out, though they were happy to tell her about their lives in exchange.

They’d heard from plenty of people, even the Shaper of Memories himself, about the Castes, why they existed, what they all meant. Even the Casteless, Alistair thought he had understood. Forsaken by the government, the community, the society. But it was so much deeper. Not only were they forsaken, but cursed. They could _never_ rise above the station they were born into, no matter what they did. Any possible avenues to do so-- merchantry, military, artistry-- all were denied them, and they could be punished merely for existing because, as far as Orzammar was concerned, they _didn’t_ exist.

“I… I can’t believe this is here,” Esfera remarked, turning away from yet another beggar. “How different from… _everything_ up above. How can any king sit on the throne knowing that his _own_ people live like this?!” 

“You cannot waste your energy on saving every beggar in the world,” Morrigan piped up. “We have a Blight to face. Deal with that, and you can give away as much coin as you wish. Until then, we have priorities.”

Esfera turned back to Morrigan, nodding. “Right. I must secure Orzammar’s aid against the Blight. And to do that, there must be a king on the throne. One does not have to be a good person to do what is right. And if it is truly my word that will sway the Assembly’s opinion of who deserves Orzammar’s throne, then I must choose the candidate who will offer any kind of change to _this_.”

“What happened to ‘it is not the job of Wardens to interfere in politics?” Alistair asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I am not _delighted_ by the idea. But _I_ am not changing Orzammar. I am merely enabling the one who will do so.” She squeezed her eyes shut, as if the taste of her own words was even more disgusting than the stench of the Dust Town air. “And the one who will do so is… Prince Bhelen.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was a noticeable slump to Esfera’s shoulders as they returned to the Chamber of the Assembly, a twitch to her eye when Gavorn brightened upon seeing her. But before the dwarf could even say anything, she asked, in the tone of a person who will accept only one answer:

“Your Prince Bhelen, he will _truly_ try to change things in Orzammar?”

“Yes, of course. Trade with the surface will--”

“--I don’t care about trade. _Will he help the Casteless?”_

Gavorn stared up at her for a long moment, his gaze hardening when he finally answered, “yes. He will.”

Esfera stretched out her hand, though disgust still played across her face. “Then I will help Bhelen assume the throne.”

“Wonderful! Lord Helmi will be--”

“--BUT, I cannot support the reign of a king who cannot come to the kingship honorably. I will fight for you, lend my voice to yours, but I will _not_ lie for you. Do you understand?”

Gavorn, already in the process of handing the promissory notes to her, started to pull them back as she interrupted, but she grabbed them before he could.

“But Bhelen demands loyalty, Warden. Your reluctance is hardly encouraging.”

“And yet it seems he cannot assume the throne without it,” Morrigan commented, her yellow eyes narrowing. “Considering his position, I’d think he’d best accept the help that’s being offered.”

“Bhelen is the rightful king! The Assembly will see it!”

“The Blight will destroy us all before the Assembly makes a decision and you and I both know it,” Esfera shot back. “But if Bhelen wants a demonstration of my loyalty, he shall have it. I will show Lord Helmi and Lady Dace these notes. However, I will also tell them the _truth._ ”

“I fail to see how this secures support for Bhelen.”

“A willingness to admit mistakes, for one. But there is also the matter of the Proving.”

“The Proving?”

“They are grand tournaments, fought under the eyes of your Ancestors and Paragons, yes? One can demonstrate honor through combat, even win it back when it has been lost, clear one’s name through battle?”

“Yes…” Gavorn replied, uncertainly.

“Dulin Forender asked me to fight as Harrowmont’s champion, since your lord has intimidated his best fighters into stepping out. What if… I fought for Bhelen instead?”

Gavorn looked between her and the rest of the group, clearly mulling over the idea. “A public declaration of choice, hmm? Not very Grey Warden-like.”

“These are unconventional times,” Esfera replied flatly. “So what say you?”

Gavorn crossed his arms. “Participating in the tournament will only demonstrate the ancestors’ favor of Bhelen if you _win_.”

“I will.”

“You don’t even know who or what you’ll be up against. And Bhelen still _has_ all of his best fighters.”

“I’ve slain two high dragons,” Esfera replied without a hint of arrogance in her voice. “I can handle a few dwarves.”

“Dragons?! Surely you--” Gavorn glanced at Alistair, who shrugged. Nope, not a lie at all. Well, technically one of them was actually Flemeth, a shapeshifter, but it was pretty much the same battle as fighting Andraste the dragon.

“And besides, what better demonstration of the Ancestors’ favor than having a golem at my side?” she asked, gesturing to Shale.

“I’ll not be paraded about like a prize horse,” Shale commented defensively.

“You’ll get to squash a great _many_ heads, you know,” Esfera replied without so much as a glance.

“Oh, alright, you’ve convinced me.”

 _That was easy,_ Alistair thought, mentally cataloguing it for future handling of Shale’s whims.

Gavorn stepped out of Esfera’s shadow, his mind obviously spinning wildly as he considered the assembly of a golem, an elf, and three humans-- one of which was a mage. Then, finally, he nodded. “Alright, Warden, have it your way. Win the Proving in Bhelen’s name, and he’ll be willing to meet with you.”

“Excellent.”

He seemed leery of shaking Esfera’s hand, then sighed and shook it, his smile returning to his lips.

“Ancestors guide you, Warden.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Which brings us to Alistair’s view of the Proving Grounds as Wynne pushed her way through the stands toward him, trying to politely wiggle past the many pairs of short but stocky dwarven legs, many of them swearing as Cookie shoved unceremoniously past them, and swearing further when Wynne directed Sten to sit down and the dwarves behind them subsequently couldn’t see.

“What in the _Maker’s name_ is going on?!” Wynne asked him as soon as she was seated, smoothing out her enchanter’s robes. “We returned from the Circle and couldn’t find you anywhere! Then there were a bunch of dwarves talking excitedly about how a Grey Warden was going to be fighting in the Provings today… what in the world did I miss?”

Alistair explained as best he could over the increasing roar of the crowd, how and why they’d agreed to support Bhelen, and how they’d spent a week and a half in Aeducan Thaig searching for Lord Dace so that they could present him with the promissory notes and then made their way through a secret Carta hideout to annihilate the leader, Jarvia. He finished just in time for the second match to start, since Esfera had managed to defeat her first competitor, Seweryn, without even removing her shield from her back. The Provings Master announced the second round, and then the shouting, cheering, and booing got so loud that he gave up on trying to explain everything.

“Oh, two against one?! Really?! That’s not fair at all!” he heard Wynne shout over the roar of the crowd, and turned to stare at her sudden intensity and ferocity. Remind him for the thousandth time not to get on that old lady’s bad side.

He’d managed to secure relatively good seats by using both the “I’m a Grey Warden” and “I’m the Grey Warden’s lover” strategies in even rotation, but it still felt as if Esfera was a whole world away as she slid her ironbark shield from her back just in time to block a blow from Myaja’s hammer, her blade flashing as she spun it in an arc toward Lucjan. 

The more he watched the fighting, the more he could tell that Esfera was using her size more than anything to win. The twins were fast, but they clearly weren’t used to fighting humans, and it was telling whenever Esfera smashed her shield downwards.

Both were on the ground in no time, and the fight was finished. More boos erupted, but they were quickly silenced by a rising amount of cheers, much of which came from Alistair himself, he had to admit.

“Apparently some of the matches are going to be team battles, if you’re wondering where Morrigan, Leliana, and Shale went,” Alistair explained, leaning closer to Wynne so that he wouldn’t have to shout so loudly in order to be heard.

“Oh? Then where is Zevran?”

Alistair blinked, looking over to his left side, where, instead of the elf that had been sitting there a few moments ago, there was an empty spot on the stone bench.

“Oh, Maker’s-- that blasted assassin--”

“I went to get snacks.”

Alistair jumped out of his seat so fast that a dwarf behind him chucked a nug skull at him and shouted at him to sit down.

Zevran, meanwhile, just grinned and slid calmly back into his seat, munching on some pieces of cheese and lichen bread.

“You nasty little-- you did that on purpose!” Alistair shouted, sitting back down.

“Who, _me?_ Why would I do such a thing? You need merely be more aware of your surroundings.”

Alistair glared at him for the single moment the Provings allowed before the next set of competitors emerged from their opposing gates, noticing that Esfera was, this time, being followed by Leliana. Who he could _swear_ actually looked up at his spot in the stands and _winked_ at him. That snide little--

This battle, too, was over relatively quickly, once Leliana’s arrows managed to find their way through the second competitor’s armor. Once, while Esfera was occupied with the main opponent, Lord Darvianak Volley, the Second, Olaniv, thought he’d managed to catch the rogue off-guard when he managed to push in close… only to get shanked by the Cheese Knife they’d recovered from Honnleath.

The final battle went on much longer, though despite the apparent confidence of Piotin Aeducan and his guards, even from his spot on the stands Alistair could see them blanch a little bit when Shale stomped in behind Esfera, the golem’s… skin? Glittering with sets of augmentation crystals they’d picked up in Aeducan Thaig.

And they _definitely_ didn’t handle Morrigan’s spells very well. Piotin Aeducan and his second mostly shrugged it off, he gave them credit for that, but the blast of flames also served as a nice cover for the big stone fist that seemed to come out of nowhere and send them flying. Which Shale seemed delighted by. He could hear the deep, echoing laughter over the sounds of combat AND cheering.

Managing to slip away from Esfera, Piotin approached Morrigan, looking very much like he was going to overwhelm the witch, until she suddenly disappeared. Or… okay, maybe she didn’t disappear. _Actually_ , it seemed like she turned into a cloud of stinging insects, buzzing around Piotin viciously, keeping him blinded by pain from the ironbark shield that smashed into him.

Once he was on the ground, Morrigan returned to her human form, bringing Spellweaver-- the magical sword they’d found wielded by one of the Disciples of Andraste back in the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes-- down into his spleen.

Even Alistair winced, hoping that the Provings had an ample supply of magical healing potions on hand. They probably did? Right?

When Piotin and all of his team lay unconscious, Esfera turned back to the Proving Master’s place in the stands, bowing her head as he announced her the winner. And when asked if there were any who denied that the Grey Warden (apparently the dwarves had a hard time pronouncing “Esfera”) had earned her title, Alistair was a bit surprised not to hear the cacophony of boos that had accompanied just about every victory so far. Apparently dwarves had “rules” about such things. That, or Esfera was _just that good._

“Then I am pleased to announce the Grey Warden as the winner of this Memorial Proving, the favorite of the ancestors!”

More cheering, then falling quiet as Esfera slowly lifted Starfang over her head, her expression incomprehensible as she shouted, “To Prince Bhelen! May he rule forever!”

She cleaned and resheathed her sword, following her companions out of the arena as the stands erupted into a chaos of screams.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time Alistair, Wynne, Sten, Zevran, and Cookie were able to wriggle their way free of the excitable Proving crowd, Esfera was already emerging from the Royal Palace, her fellow Proving team in tow, including Leliana’s new pet nug, apparently named “Schmooples.”

She looked energized by her victory, a bit less downtrodden than she had been in the days leading up to it, smiling and embracing Wynne when she saw the enchanter returned safely.

“Oh, so much has happened since you were gone!” she cried, pulling back out of the embrace. “What did Irving say? Is Dagna accepted for study?”

Wynne nodded. “Of course. The Circle could not turn down such determination to pursue knowledge. I informed the young girl just before I came to find you. No doubt she has already left Orzammar.”

Esfera nodded, then stepped back to look at the group. “That is good to hear. Now… as for my talk with Prince Bhelen…” she screwed up her nose. “I have one last task to complete. I am to find the Paragon Branka in the Deep Roads and convince her to give Prince Bhelen her blessing as King.”

Alistair blinked. “You mean the one that’s married to that drunk, Oghren? The Paragon Branka that’s been in the Deep Roads for more than _two years?!”_

Esfera nodded slowly. “...yes. Look, I know the odds aren’t good, but without the Wardens the Dwarves are the most experienced force against Darkspawn in all of Ferelden. We _need_ them. And nothing in the Assembly will be decided without the vote of a Paragon. Not in the time we have.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Leliana piped up, her hand on her hip. “I have always wanted to see the Deep Roads.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Really? You’re going to take the town _drunk_ with you, but I have to stay behind?!” Alistair complained as the group heading into the Deep Roads packed their supplies for their weeks underground.

Esfera glanced back at their new… guide? Companion? and winced when he released a particularly loud belch. “Well… Paragon Branka _is_ his wife. I couldn’t possibly turn him down. And if he’s telling the truth-- which I think he is-- he’s probably our best bet in finding the woman at all.”

Alistair continued frowning, and Esfera lightly punched his arm, smiling encouragingly. “Oh, stop looking at me like that. We can’t take everyone into the Deep Roads or we’ll draw too much Darkspawn attention. We need to be able to move quickly. And… I need you here.”

“Right, right, to keep an eye on the Blight. I just… are you sure you’re going to be alright down there?”

“I have to be,” Esfera replied, her gaze hardening. She lifted her hand to his face, and he felt the gentleness in her touch even behind the warm metal of her gauntlets.

He leaned into her hand, closing his eyes and sighing. “You know I can’t fight you when you get all serious like that. _Fine_ … but you have to promise me you’re not going to do anything stupidly reckless.”

“I’ll… try not to.”

He narrowed his eyes at her and she laughed, pulling him into a quick kiss. “I will return to you alive, my love, I promise. And all of our friends, too. Though I suspect Wynne will be responsible for that as much as I. Regardless… take care of everyone for me while we’re gone, alright? And if something does go wrong with the Blight… send Cookie after me. He will know how to find me.”

“I still don’t understand why you’re putting _me_ in charge.”

“Would you rather I put Morrigan in charge?”

“...Good point.”

She kissed his forehead one last time, her hand slipping out of his grip as she stepped away, sending him one final smile over her shoulder as she led her companions forward, disappearing into the Deep Roads.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alistair wouldn’t describe his attitude while they waited for their friends to return as particularly patient. First, he spent about an hour pacing. Then he spent another hour chasing Cookie down after the dog playfully stole some of the dried meat Alistair had purchased before the Proving right out of his pocket and ran away with it. 

Fortunately, Shale seemed relatively content in Orzammar, happy to be away from “the avian scourge” for a little while. That left Alistair with one _less_ thing to worry about. And Morrigan, now that her mother had been slain, was suddenly the picture of cooperation. Well, not with Alistair, but she was unlikely to act up if it would inconvenience Esfera. She was still her usual beacon of deathglares and insults when it came to Alistair.

Hardly half a day had passed before Alistair found himself back in front of Garin’s shop, staring down at the Lifegiver, remembering Esfera’s change in expression when she saw it, the way she’d stroked it with her fingertips. And the disappointment on her face when she hadn’t had enough money.

Alistair pulled his own coin purse from his armor and opened it, frowning down at the abundance of coppers and digging around until he found two lonely gold pieces-- far short of the almost ninety he would need in order to purchase it.

“Is… there a way I could convince you to set an object aside until I have the coin to purchase it?” Alistair attempted, still frowning down at the two gold coins.

Garin tapped his fingers on the table for a moment, then frowned first at the ring, then at Alistair. “I know what you’re looking at. F-for the other Grey Warden, yes? It is a valuable ring and I don’t want to insult any of my other customers… what did you ask me again?”

“Can you set it aside for me.”

“Oh! Right! Well, since you’ve been so polite, I’ll keep the ring set aside until the Assembly chooses the next king. The only people with enough coin to buy it are the deshyrs anyway.” He chuckled to himself, pulling the glass case off of the table. “G-g-good luck, Warden!”

~~~~~~~Esfera~~~~~~~~

She didn’t know how long they were in the Deep Roads, cutting their way first through Caridin’s cross and then into Ortan Thaig. Without the sun, moon, and stars to guide her, time slipped through her fingers like water over rocks. When their bodies grew so weary that they could no longer walk, let alone fight, they would stop to rest, even sleep when they could, but even such times were rarely restorative. It seemed as if every step she took she grew more and more weary.

Darkspawn of all kinds, the genlocks and hurlocks of course, but also shrieks lurking in the ever-present shadows, emissaries hiding behind the dust and scattering them all with burning, explosive fireballs. Ogres, looming and powerful. But also the spiders, hovering just out of sight until one of them misstepped, got momentarily tangled in a web or tried to open a chest.

As they finally reached Ortan Thaig, the already impossibly high ceilings of the Deep Roads rose even higher, almost even creating the illusion of a night sky. But it was still so dark, so dismal… she missed the grandeur of Orzammar. The snow of the Frostbacks. The smell of grass and rain, the feeling of Cookie’s fur under her fingertips, the sound of Morrigan insulting Alistair--

She sat down quickly, holding her head in her hands. “We need rest.”

“Branka’s not gonna find herself, you sodding--” Oghren fell silent with one bitter glare.

Wynne pursed her lips at him. “The Warden is right, Oghren. Ale will not sustain even you forever. We need sleep, or we will not be able to save your wife even if we find her,” she argued as Leliana sat down next to Esfera, wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulders.

“But we cannot rest,” Esfera complained, her head still in her hands. “Not really. There is no place safe from the darkspawn. They find us. Find _me._ ”

She peered into the darkness beyond the light at the end of Wynne’s staff, then blinked once, twice, taking off her helmet to rub her eyes before she looked again.

“There’s… a fire.”

“Yeah, even the darkspawn like a good bonfire, Warden,” Oghren scoffed. “What of it?”

Esfera shook her head. “We’ve killed all of the darkspawn in the area for now, I’m sure of it.” She smiled wryly. “Warden senses, you know.” She got to her feet, letting Leliana’s arm slip away. “But a fire cannot sustain itself down here without someone to tend to it. I think… maybe we are not alone.”

She approached cautiously, letting Leliana lead from the shadows, everyone with their weapons already drawn. The fire was just barely visible from most anywhere else in the cavern, tucked away in a tiny nook, but inviting. Warm, like sunlight, like blankets and healing magic. 

But the dagger she found at her neck was cold, biting.

“Stone-met, Surfacer.”

Esfera followed the point of the blade with her eyes, not moving her head or letting go of her sword or shield. She could not see her assailant in the dark, only knew that they were dwarven, though they wore the helmet of a hurlock alpha.

She glanced across the nook to where she had known Leliana to be, only to see the bard with her eyes wide and her hands up, a crossbow bolt pointed directly at her back.

“You… are you the Paragon Branka?” Esfera asked, uncertainly.

“These Dusters ain’t Branka,” Oghren answered, strolling up unceremoniously despite the precarious position of his companions. “Whole different signature.”

The dagger at Esfera’s throat retracted, and the dwarf stepped into the firelight, the voice turning cool but threatening. “I’d watch who you call ‘Duster,’ Salroka. Nerik tends to take offense to that.” 

The dwarf with the bow pointed at Leliana’s back scoffed. “No I don’t. I’m from Dust Town. I’m a Duster. It’s only an insult to people who don’t want to end up there.”

Esfera blinked, looking back and forth between their two captors. “Who… are you?”

The closer dwarf nodded and the other sighed and lowered the crossbow, plopping down into the dirt next to the fire. As Esfera and Leliana relaxed slightly, both dwarves removed their helmets. From the one that had hidden the face of Esfera’s assailant, a curtain of corn-yellow braids tumbled out, and their owner turned to face her.

“I am Mirra Aeducan. This Duster,” she said, gesturing toward the man with dark brown hair into which an intricate pattern of dwarven facial tattoos disappeared, “is Nerik Brosca. We are criminals of Orzammar, sent to the Deep Roads to die.”

“By the ancestors!” Oghren shouted. “ _You’re_ the middle Aeducan?! You’re still alive down here?!”

Mirra narrowed her eyes at him. “And you’re Oghren, the Proving fighter. Lollinar told me you were still pressuring nobles to search for your wife. Looks like you finally got someone to listen.” She sat down next to the fire and gestured for the others to join.

Esfera practically collapsed, still staring in awe at Mirra Aeducan. “But you must have been down here for _months_ , all alone! How did you survive?!”

“Well, I was fairly sure I _wouldn’t_ , at first. Royal armsmen might be great at training you how to kill darkspawn, but no one bothered to teach me how to survive where there’s no food. I would’ve died if I hadn’t run into Nerik.”

“Who is an expert, by the way, at surviving where there isn’t any food,” he piped up, holding a chunk of mystery meat. “They say you can only survive in the Deep Roads if you eat Darkspawn flesh, but that’s only what the picky eaters in the castes will tell you. If you suck it up and eat the spiders and their eggs, you can survive for a long time.”

Leliana hid her slight gagging sound behind her mouth, which only further seemed to amuse Nerik. 

“I was sent here for disrespecting a Proving, if you want to know. Fought under someone else’s name just to help the Carta win a bet. That went about as well as you’d expect.”

Oghren coughed a laugh. “Well yeah, a casteless thug in a Proving? Might as well have the Assembly on their knees praying to human gods.”

Nerik shrugged. “It was that or die. The usual stakes for a ‘casteless thug’. If I had a caste, they may have thought about letting me join the Legion to pay back the honor I stole from Everd. But as I am, I don’t got any honor to start with. Just a choice of how I wanted to be executed. I ran into the Deep Roads so that my death wouldn’t have to reach my sister before she got ahold of a deshyr. I hope she’s still alive…”

He trailed off and the group fell into silence, until Mirra finally looked between Esfera and Oghren. “You mentioned Paragon Branka… what brings a group of surfacers all the way to Ortan Thaig for a dwarven mystery?”

Esfera explained as well as she could all that was happening in the world ever since Mirra had been framed and sent into the Deep Roads: The Blight, the events at Ostagar, the Grey Warden treaties, and the status of Orzammar now that King Endrin was had passed.

Mirra’s eyes widened, and then she looked down at her lap, her fists clenched. “So Father is dead, then…”

“I’m… sorry, it must be hard for you to hear this from someone who didn’t know him at all.”

“No, I… thank you. It is better than not knowing. So you are here to find Paragon Branka so that she may decide the fate of Orzammar?”

“Yes, but… I did not know you were here! Mirra, you could fix everything! I have hated every moment I have been forced to choose between Harrowmont and Bhelen. But you were your father’s favorite child, beloved by many in Orzammar. You could--”

Mirra stopped her, shaking her head. “I appreciate what you are saying. I do. But I cannot go back.”

“What?! Why not?!”

“You do not know our ways, Surfacer. I am Casteless now, no better than Nerik. Orzammar may yet remember me, but I have been struck from the Memories, denied even the honor of joining the Legion. I will soon be forgotten.”

“But… you are innocent, aren’t you? Bhelen framed you.”

Mirra shook her head, digging through the pocket of her armor to pull out a golden ring bearing the insignia of House Aeducan. “Bhelen saved me from Trian. I always got along better with my younger brother than my elder. Trian would have been a terrible king and both of us knew it. Trian sent mercenaries after me, and their leader was carrying _his_ signet ring. When I returned to my eldest brother to confront him… he was already dead. Father saw me standing over the body and what other conclusion should he draw?”

“And did you? Kill him?”

Mirra shook her head. “No. He was dead when I arrived. But… I would have done anything to keep Trian from assuming the throne. How could I expect any less from Bhelen? Would I have assassinated him? I don’t think so, but I am uncertain Trian would have given me a choice. I don’t know how you humans choose your kings, but in Orzammar it almost almost comes with espionage and bloodshed.”

“No no, that’s often how it happens on the surface, too,” Leliana replied flatly.

“See, Mirra! I told you!” Nerik shouted, then laughed.

Mirra narrowed her eyes at him, but he was busily sharing whatever nasty liquid he had in his waterskin with Oghren. Exactly what Esfera needed: Oghren to be _more_ drunk, and possibly food poisoned.

“Anyway, either Bhelen or I would have murdered him, and the other would have been accused of framing the other. I found that out when Lord Harrowmont declared it at my trial. It was never supposed to be an either-or situation. Harrowmont wanted to make it impossible for _any_ of us to be king. And my Second, Gorim…” her face fell again, the ring clenched so tightly in her grip that Esfera could see the metal begin to warp, “he was stripped of his caste for it, sent to the surface. Just an innocent casualty in a game I wrapped him up in.”

Behind his alcohol, Oghren muttered, “Blegh, _Gorim._ Sodding nut-twister for the rules.”

Esfera ignored him, meeting Leliana’s gaze. “Wait, Gorim? There is a dwarven merchant in Denerim by that name.”

Mirra sat up. “A merchant? But he was warrior caste, I--” she cut herself off, shrinking underneath Nerik’s annoyed glare. “I suppose, when one is sent to the surface, caste becomes irrelevant. You must do what you can to survive.”

“Tell me about it,” Nerik scoffed, leaning back on his hands. “You’re telling me that the noble my sister snagged was _Bhelen?!_ That makes Mirra my sodding sister-in-law!”

Mirra shivered, and Nerik laughed.

Esfera laid a hand on Mirra’s arm. “Please, Princess Aeducan. Without a seat on the throne, I cannot get Orzammar’s aid against the Blight. If what you say is true, then… Harrowmont and Bhelen have both schemed against you. I should not be forced to choose between them.”

“Look, I… would, if I could. But there’s something else I haven’t told you.”

At this, Nerik’s expression grew grave, and Mirra looked out into the cavern of the Thaig, chewing at her lip. “For all our bravado earlier, we are not untouched by our time here. We never ate darkspawn flesh, not directly. But even as careful as we tried to be, it is sometimes impossible to tell which spiders have been corrupted. We… are both tainted. It is slight, and I am sure you cannot see it in my face yet, but… I can feel it. Singing, in my blood. In my sleep. When we first saw you approach our camp, I was filled with hope. I know only Wardens can survive the Taint without becoming a ghoul, though I know not how. But… you can’t save us, can you?”

Esfera closed her eyes, despairing. “No. I lived through my Joining ritual, but I cannot tell you how to undertake one. I am… so sorry.”

Nerik shook his head. “Guess it’s back to plan B, then.”

Raising an eyebrow, Oghren asked, “Plan B? What was Plan A?”

Grinning bitterly, Nerik answered, “Plan A was to die in the Deep Roads, killing as many darkspawn as possible. But then both me and the princess here realized we were too sodding stubborn to just up and die. So we decided we’d try to head west, get to Orlais under the Frostbacks. Maybe we’d get there in time to find some Wardens.”

“It’s a long shot, I know,” Mirra admitted. “But it’s all we’ve got.”

“I… see. So you cannot help us, then.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say _that_ ,” Nerik replied, getting to his feet. “You see that stage over there? There’s a dwarven ghoul named Ruck who scavenges right around there. He’s living in some kind of abandoned camp. Not only does he have some supplies hoarded up you might be able to talk him out of, but I’ll bet my left arm that camp has something to do with your Paragon. And it’s a good place to get some shut-eye.”

“And… about the throne,” Mirra added. “It may sound ludicrous coming from me, but my brother is the better choice. I may not have said so before, as bitter as I was over my betrayal, but… Nerik has taught me a great deal of what it means to be casteless. And Harrowmont may be honorable, but he is so focused on _honor_ that he does not see _good_ , and he is also easily manipulated. He may be your ally now, but he will easily be convinced to turn on you. If there is one good thing I will say about my brother… it is that when he says he is going to do something, he follows through. Always.”

She grabbed Esfera’s hand and dropped the signet ring into it, closing the human woman’s fist around it. “Tell Gorim that I am alive, and that I will try to stay that way. That I am sorry. That I… that I…”

Esfera nodded, not needing Mirra to finish her thought to know what it was. “I will tell him.”

~~~~~~~~~~Alistair~~~~~~~~~~~

Alistair spent the next few days doing odd jobs in the hope of gathering enough coin to buy the Lifegiver. And by odd jobs he didn’t mean “a mixed assortment.” He did very much mean “odd,” “strange,” “bizarre.”

“GET IT, COOKIE! We have it cornered!”

A skin-pink blur shot down the causeway toward the Proving Grounds, followed by a much larger _brown_ blur, disorienting a smith-caste dwarf so much he almost plummeted over the handrails to his death had his companion not caught him. Well, the blur _and_ the bloodcurdling growl-bark that followed the blur as it travelled.

The nug hit the stone doors of the Proving Grounds and squealed, turning to face Cookie as the dog paced closer, his hackles raised, waiting for the tiny, ugly animal to try to slip past him. Alistair jogged down the causeway after them, his nug-box in hand, already completely out of breath from his exertions so far.

“Okay, you go right; I’m coming in from the left.”

Cookie barked, and Alistair rolled his eyes. “Okay, _you_ go left, and I’ll come in from the right.”

Cookie barked again, dropping into a crouch as he slowly inched toward the nug, which was looking increasingly panicked. Finally, Alistair sprang forward, managing to slam the crate over the nug’s entire body, landing on his belly with a painful _clang_ of armor against stone. But still! They caught it!

Alistair quickly slid the lid across the bottom of the box and flipped it over, much to the chagrin of the nug inside. “Alright! Good job, Cookie, the greatest of the hounds of Ferelden! Yes you are, yes you _are!”_

Cookie barked, looking pleased with himself as Alistair scratched him under the ears, then barked and snapped up the piece of dried meat that Alistair offered him.

Alistair’s nug-catching rate had improved significantly since he had recruited Cookie to his cause, to the entertainment and chagrin of the dwarves of Orzammar. Apparently neither the nugs nor the dwarves who wrangled them were used to having dogs around, and it made Cookie especially talented at catching them. 

When Alistair had _first_ suggested catching nugs for Boermor in exchange for payment, his initial confidence had rapidly deteriorated into hopelessness. Those Maker-forsaken things weren’t just ugly, they were _slippery!_

He got the wriggling box back to Boermor, who grinned widely as he handed over the expected twelve silvers, glancing back at his growing collection of nugs of varying sizes. “You’ve single-handedly saved my business, my nug-wrangling friend!”

“Yes… it was me, completely.”

Cookie growled.

“Okay, okay, credit where it’s due! My friend here did most of the work.”

Cookie barked in approval and sat down, his tongue lolling as he looked expectantly up at Boermor.

Finally the nug-wrangler sighed and handed over another silver to Alistair. “Bring me ten more that size and I’ll make you a sodding business partner. How’s that sound?”

Cookie barked his approval, then got to his feet and began strolling away, his little stub of a tail wagging.

Alistair ran a hand through his sweat-slicked hair and watched the hound go, wondering if Esfera would be upset that he was using her animal companion for monetary gain.

But… Cookie seemed to be enjoying himself, and that was what mattered… right?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He of course _also_ poked his head out of Orzammar occasionally to do what Esfera had actually _asked_ him to do. It was a bit of a relief, honestly. He’d started to get used to the earthy, rock-and-forge smell of Orzammar, but it was still good to get away from it every now and then and breathe in the crisp mountain air, eat fresh meat and vegetables that _weren’t_ some kind of root or lichen, and feel the warmth of the sun on his face. The lava river beneath Orzammar ensured that the city never got cold, but there was something less comforting about it than the sun’s glow. Maybe because, despite what the dwarves thought, you _couldn’t_ actually fall into the sun and burn to death. Unlike the lava pits.

But the relief was sometimes a bit separate from his physical senses. There was something… straining about being so near the Deep Roads. Like a crawling under his skin, trying to break free. It was the Darkspawn, he knew, always trying to push past the dwarven lines and onto the surface, but it was still an uncomfortable feeling. He couldn’t imagine what it must actually be like for Wardens undergoing their Calling, when the darkspawn Taint sang strongest. What it must be like for Esfera at that very moment.

But he tried not to think about it when he went up to the surface to scout the movement of the Blight, listening and feeling for the Darkspawn.

Alistair wished, for the hundredth, thousandth, millionth time, that Duncan had lived. He remembered, once, getting to the top of a hill as they traveled to Ostagar, Duncan had stopped him with his arm, pointing far off into the distance, and announced, “there are Darkspawn coming from that direction.”

At the time, Alistair had squinted into the unmoving trees and looked at Duncan skeptically, but when they went down the hill, they found the party of genlock scouts at the exact spot Duncan had indicated. Alistair had never doubted Duncan again.

But standing at the edge of the Frostback Mountains looking down at Ferelden, he suddenly realized that he had no idea how Duncan was even able to sense the Darkspawn from so far away. How he was supposed to know where they were, to dip into their mental link just long enough to learn their plans, then step out before they could do the same for him?

He didn’t know. His ability to sense the darkspawn grew by the day, but he still never felt like it was enough. 

There were clouds to the south, far in the distance. Large and unpleasant with a greenish hue.

And though the air of the Frostbacks was fresher than that of Orzammar, he could smell the haze in the air, just barely taste ash on his tongue when he breathed. The Blight was spreading. But not there. It hadn’t reached the North yet, he was fairly sure. But they were running out of time.

~~~~~~~~~~Esfera~~~~~~~~~~~

Past poor Ruck, who would never see his mother again, but who had provided them enough supplies and safety for one last good night’s rest. Past the Spider Queen and her collection of Branka’s books. There, they reached the Dead Trenches, and there, the singing began in earnest.

She had felt it inside of her, ever since they had entered the Deep Roads, the light hum in the back of her mind rising into a distant chorus. But here… it was as if every Sister and Brother in every Chantry in the world was singing directly into her ear, her mind.

She, Oghren, Wynne, and Leliana cautiously approached the chasms, hearing the darkspawn as much as they could see their sickening movement. She felt nauseous, her mind was spinning, she… could not control herself.

Her feet were carrying her toward the edge, looking down, down, down, down at the writhing glow of the darkspawn-fires below. The song grew, louder and louder, blocking out all sounds, all thoughts.

From even this height she could see faces, twisted and vile yet somehow familiar. Whispers and thoughts she’d heard before, the press of bodies in the dark she’d felt before… they were listening, yes, all listening to the song, to go where the song led them. To help their master, singer of the Call.

A powerful blast of air threatened to send her falling backwards, gathering her balance as the Archdemon in all its glory burst from the trenches, shimmering and pouring forth unquenchable violet flame. 

_It was such a beautiful song, aching with knowledge and memory. And a truly beautiful beast, rippling with color and muscle, as if, against the darkness, the dragon itself was dawn._

_And still it was reaching for her, one long claw stretched in her direction. It watched her, it waited, still singing, stil pleading, still calling._

_She stretched her hand out, up, up, up, toward the claw, running her fingers over its smooth surface._

_But the moment she did, the claw cracked and blackened, a darkening, roiling infection that began at the point of her touch and spread outwards, upwards, twisting through the dragon’s flesh and warping it, spilling veins outwards and turning scales inwards. Muscles split and re-knotted, the glimmering colors of its hide grew dull and bloody, dripping its black poison outwards, ever outwards, creating and spreading the infinite blackness of this world._

She needed to go to it, to help it, save it. Her friends, her comrades below, they would catch her, the song told her so.

The song, it was so loud now, it was everything, everywhere, beautiful and wonderful and--

She didn’t even realize she was falling until a hand grabbed the collar of her armor and yanked her backwards, out of the air and onto the red dirt upon which she’d been standing.

Only with the pain of her landing did her ears hear words again. Leliana and Wynne’s pleading, worried cries, Oghren’s swearing, telling her what a sodding bleeding-hearted idiot she was who was going to get them all killed, and also what do they _feed_ you on the surface you weigh more than a pregnant rock-licker--

She pressed a hand to her forehead, focusing on the sounds of her companions’ voices to overwhelm His voice. The memories of their journeys together to stomp down the rising Call.

Finally, as the Archdemon rose into the great cavern and flew toward the sky, the song ebbed and she felt her mind return to her. “I… thank you, Oghren. I was not myself. We… should hurry. The Blight clearly will not wait for us to find Branka.”

~~~~~~~Alistair~~~~~~~~~

One week had turned into two, two weeks had turned into three, and still Esfera and the others had not returned from the Deep Roads. The worry sat in the pit of his stomach like the accidentally-swallowed stone of a peach, refusing to move and twisting his guts. But he kept on working, protecting caravans as they reached and left the Frostbacks, even convincing Morrigan and Zevran to help him fight in some “unofficial Provings” in order to earn some coin. Though he suspected they only agreed because they were bored.

Cookie, also, had become a good friend in their time waiting for Esfera. Through many dried meats and nug-chases, he seemed to have gotten past the dog’s general mistrust of him, and they got along splendidly. It was a spot of pride for him, really. He’d managed to secure the trust of a Mabari hound, even though he wasn’t its master.

But finally, _finally,_ he had enough. He returned to Garin with a sack full of coins, setting it on top of the stand with a heavy metallic jingle. “There! As promised, good dwarf! The Assembly is still in a stalemate and I’ve made the money.”

Garin chuckled, opening up the sack and pulling out the coins one at a time, setting each on his scale with a delicate hand. “Oh yes, yes, as promised. And I still have the ring right here. Now, let’s just make sure you have the right amount..”

Alistair waited as Garin weighed and counted the gold… one… by… one… his impatience beating cruelly against his restraint with every moment ticking by. It felt like he was standing there for half an hour before Garin finally set the last coin on the scale, frowning down at them. “Oh. M-my apologies, Warden, but it seems you don’t _quite_ have enough.”

“What?! How much am I short by?!”

“F-f-five gold, I’m afraid. You can count it again yourself… if you’d like.”

“No, I was counting with you, I know. I’d bet that sneaky elf dipped his fingers in when I wasn’t looking. He’s incorrigible when Esfera isn’t around to hit him with meteorites.” He glared down at the Lifegiver in its glass case, just out of reach where Garin had set it down upon seeing Alistair approach. “I guess… I’ll have to get some more somehow.”

Garin frowned, looking at the ring and then back at Alistair, then picked up the glass case, opened it, and set the ring into Alistair’s hand.

“Wait, you’re… giving this to me? Really?”

“Only for a slight discount,” Garin chuckled, beginning to scoop the gold coins off of the scale and into a lockbox. “I can tell how much you wanted to get it to make that female Warden happy. It’s a bit sappy of me honestly, but… I was touched.”

“ _Thank you._ ” Alistair stuck the ring in his pocket, feeling the goofy smile stretch across his face against his will. “Can I ask one more thing of you, though?”

“Oh, sure!”

“Promise me you won’t tell anyone who bought it.”

“Oh, you can count on me! And Stone guide your love back to you!”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Alistair was sitting in his room in the Royal Palace (Bhelen had offered them accommodations until their companions returned) when he heard the call come from down the street.

“The Warden has returned! A Paragon has chosen a king!”

He leapt out of bed, the book he’d been attempting to read going flying into the far wall with a _thunk_ , but he didn’t bother to pick it up. He only hurried to get dressed, careful to check twice, and then another four times, that the Lifegiver was still in his pocket, before he ran out of the Palace, already short on breath when he saw Esfera stomp down the street of the Diamond Quarter before him.

“Esfera!” he called. He’d been so excited to see her, so worried, wishing to tell her of all that had happened, to give her the ring… but the words died in his throat when he saw her face. She’d stopped when he’d called her, but now that she was facing him he could clearly see a haunted look in her eyes that had not been there when she’d left, the dark circles that surrounded them making her seem almost like a ghoul.

“What… happened to you?” he asked, unable to remember anything else he’d wanted to say.

She shook her head. “Later, I promise. First… I must finish this.”

Slowly, he nodded, noticing the way she held the massive, intricate crown in her hands, as if it pulled her whole body down with its weight. And as he began to follow her down the road toward the Hall of the Assembly, he also noticed that Oghren was looking at her with a concentrated rage Alistair hadn’t thought the dwarf was capable of. He’d _heard_ that Oghren was a berserker, but that was a different kind of rage.

Naturally, the Assembly was in an uproar when Esfera pushed the doors open, the air filled with all kinds of accusations from forgery to assassination. From the general ambiance, Alistair was pretty sure the place would have erupted into violence in moments had the whole hall not gradually fallen silent as one deshyr after another noticed Esfera’s arrival, even before the Guard stepped forward to interrupt Bhelen and Harrowmont’s arguing to announce that the Warden had returned from the Deep Roads.

All eyes were on her. Waiting, expectantly.

“Well, Warden?” Bhelen asked. “What news do you bring?”

Esfera’s grip on the crown tightened. “Paragon Branka is dead.”

The deshyrs let out a collective gasp, and Alistair glanced at Oghren, suddenly realizing what the rage was for.

“But…” Esfera continued. “I bring a crown forged by the Paragon Caridin himself, for his chosen king.”

“Caridin was trapped in the body of a golem,” Oghren explained, sounding uncharacteristically sober as Esfera handed the crown over to Assembly Steward Bandelor. “This Warden granted him the mercy he sought, releasing him and destroying the Anvil of the Void.”

Despite the anger at his wife’s death, Alistair could sense… respect in Oghren’s voice. Not surprising, considering Esfera’s usual effect on people, but it was still good to see some improvement in a person as generally unpleasant as Oghren.

“But before he died, Caridin forged a crown for Orzammar’s next king, chosen by the Ancestors themselves!”

“I would like to believe Oghren’s word,” Harrowmont scoffed, “but it’s well known the Grey Warden is Bhelen’s hireling.”

“Silence!” The Steward interrupted, still investigating the crown with increasing awe. “This crown _is_ of Paragon make, and bears House Ortan’s ancient seal.”

More gasps.

“Tell us, Warden,” he continued, “whom did Caridin choose?”

At this, Alistair could see Esfera’s fingers begin to flutter, noticed the way she bit her lip for a moment before she answered, “Caridin… chose Bhelen.”

Esfera had already turned to go when the ceremony began, ignoring Bhelen’s commentary, barely listening to the pounding of staves on the stone ground or Steward’s proclamation as he placed the crown on Bhelen’s head. She only stopped when Bhelen turned back to Harrowmont and asked, “Do _you_ acknowledge me as king?”

There was a long pause as Harrowmont glanced around the Assembly, even locking eyes first with Alistair, and then Esfera, before he finally dropped to a knee and answered, “I… cannot defy a Paragon. The throne is yours… King Bhelen.”

A smile slowly spread across Bhelen’s face, and then he shouted, “then as my first act as king, I call for this man’s execution! Guards! Seize him!”

As heavily-armored dwarves rushed past them to take hold of Lord Harrowmont, Alistair managed to grab onto Esfera’s arm before she could charge at Bhelen, fury further twisting her already horror-darkened face. 

“I did not make you a king so that you could become a tyrant!” she shouted, straining against Alistair and Leliana’s hold on her.

“You know better than anyone the war facing us, Warden,” Bhelen replied, the smug smile still on his face. "Orzammar cannot afford to be divided. Anyone undermining my reign is serving only the Darkspawn. I will return to my palace to gather my generals and prepare our forces for the surface. I will see you there, Warden.”

Alistair and Leliana managed to hold Esfera back as Bhelen walked by, not daring to let her go until he was out the doors.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Esfera barely seemed to hear Bhelen’s words of gratitude and promise of dwarven forces against the Blight, even barely acknowledged when he held out an enchanted mace to her. She handed it directly over to Oghren, her eyes still concentrated on Bhelen.

“And I have a gift for you,” she said, dropping a single gold signet ring into the palm of his hand, seemingly unaffected by the surprise that turned to shock as it spread across Bhelen’s face the longer he looked at the ring, but quickly returning his expression to one more neutral before he looked up at her again.

“Your throne was hard-won, _King Bhelen_ ,” Esfera said, crossing her arms behind her back, her gaze hard. “And I will be eagerly watching your rise to power. I hope only that you will be the strong ruler that your sister promised you would be.”

And with that, she nodded slowly and made her way out of the Palace, not bothering to see the effect her words had had on Bhelen. The way he quickly stuffed the ring into his pocket. How his words came out just a little bit faster when he turned to greet his next well-wisher.

Alistair didn’t yet know what exactly that ring or Esfera’s words had meant, but he could tell that though they were worded as a blessing, they had been meant as a threat. And not one without weight.

As Alistair followed Esfera’s silhouette out of the Royal Palace, he worried about what exactly she had seen, done, experienced in the Deep Roads to harden her in such a way. Part of him wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Despite the general exhaustion of all of those who had gone into the Deep Roads, there was still much to be done. Apparently Esfera had impressed the Legion of the Dead warriors she had encountered in the Dead Trenches so much that they were easily convinced to join them on the surface, which was a great relief, but not a surprise.

Then there was the matter of returning the documents Esfera had found in Ortan Thaig to Orta in the Shaperate, telling Filda of her son, Ruck’s death, administering a specially-made antidote to a Lady who had accidentally drank a poison intended for Bhelen... 

But once all of those things were done, Esfera collapsed onto Alistair’s bed and stayed there for a full three days.

He’d figured that, based on her attitude, she’d wanted to get out of Orzammar as fast as possible, but it seemed like whatever had happened in the Deep Roads, it had sucked all of the life out of her. She didn’t seem to care that the room in which she slept was only moments’ walk away from Bhelen’s throne, or that there were groups of Harrowmont fanatics out for her blood.

Not that they were likely to attempt anything with Cookie sitting either right at the foot of her bed or in front of the door. His nug-hunting excursions had pretty successfully endowed the dwarves of Orzammar with a healthy respect for the Mabari hound. 

The dog had barely left Esfera’s side since she’d returned from the Deep Roads, frequently jumping up on the bed and licking her face whenever she would briefly stir. And she would smile in her sleep, her hands moving reflexively into the dog’s fur. Nothing had been so great a relief to Alistair in a very long time. 

Wynne and Leliana, too, seemed exhausted by something more than lack of sleep. But they decided that, rather than stay in Orzammar, they were going to go back to camp. Leliana offered before she left to tell him all that had happened, but he had just shaken his head and said that Esfera had promised to tell him later. And Leliana had smiled weakly and nodded.

“She loves you very much, you know.”

“I know.”

She’d shaken her head, yawning as she patted him on the shoulder. “No, you really don’t.”

As the others left, Alistair returned to Esfera’s side, making sure everything was ready for them to return to Redcliffe as he waited for her to wake.

She woke up gradually, her eyes opening for a while and then drifting closed for a while longer. And then open for longer this time, and closed again…

When she finally had the strength to sit up, she leaned against him and grumbled, “I’m starving.”

He laughed, a sudden, sharp sound that startled Cookie from his perch at the edge of the bed.

Alistair only felt _slightly_ guilty ordering the palace servants to get her some food, but they had _insisted_ that he ask for anything he needed while he was a guest of the king. He had to admit, he didn’t like the idea of being king, but it was nice not to be treated like a stableboy for once. They were, as the dwarven servants put it, “honored guests.” He suspected that if Bhelen had had any ideas of acting badly against them, whatever Esfera had meant when she’d given him that ring was keeping him quiet.

Though it didn’t stop him from having Cookie give the food a good sniff when it arrived, then test various portions with a poison-detector that had been certified by Zevran, Morrigan, Leliana, _and_ Wynne as the real deal. Esfera watched him with sleepy, amused interest, but began digging in as soon as he certified it not-poisoned.

As she ate, she told him all that had happened, as promised. From the moment they stepped into the Deep Roads up through watching Caridin plunge headfirst into the lava below. Through mouthfuls of the best food Orzammar could provide, she described all of the horrors and wonders she had found in the depths of the earth.

There were good things, of course: the glitter of gems in the dark, the powerful magical sword she had pieced together as she travelled, the hundreds of names honoring those who had “volunteered” to become golems, the discovery of Mirra Aeducan and Nerik Brosca, who would bring word to Orlais’ Wardens of Ferelden’s plight if they could survive the journey there.

But there were so, so many dark things. Ruck, alive but poisoned by darkspawn flesh. The sacks of bloody severed limbs, a head, and body. The nests of the giant spiders, glimmering with gem and metal but also littered with corpses. Hespith’s poem as they reached the edge of the Dead Trenches, revealing the horror of how Darkspawn are created. What it takes. The Broodmother.

She stopped eating when she reached the part about the Broodmother, her eyes returning to the haunted look they’d had when she’d first emerged from the Deep Roads. 

“The worst thing wasn’t even that I couldn’t see a dwarf in her anymore. It was that I _could_ . Genlocks and hurlocks are so twisted that I could only ever see them as themselves, never the beings that they are born from. But… the Broodmother… I could see her flesh, swollen and revolting as it was, and see dwarf-flesh. Her teeth, dwarven teeth, though her mouth was misshapen. I pitied her, even knowing the hundreds of people that likely died at the hands of genlocks _she_ birthed. And Branka… she didn’t even care.”

She shivered, and Cookie looked up from his spot at the end of the bed, whimpering. 

Smiling weakly, she patted his fur. “Oh, don’t worry, buddy. I’m alright.”

He laid his head back down on the bed and Esfera continued, describing what she found in Caridin’s journal, how the golems were made by pouring molten lyrium into the eyes, ears, and mouths of dwarven “volunteers” while they were still alive… how after reading it she’d resolved to destroy the Anvil, without telling Oghren so. Even before she’d found Caridin.

“What would you have done if Caridin wasn’t still alive to make you that crown? You needed a Paragon to swing the vote.”

Esfera picked at her lichen bread, smiling weakly. “I would’ve thought of something.”

Shrugging, Alistair admitted, “yes, you’re probably right.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Esfera finally had the majority of her strength back, they gathered their belongings and started to make their way out of Orzammar, since Oghren was waiting for them by the gates. Alistair wasn’t psyched about bringing the drunk, sexist dwarf with them, but Esfera admitted that she felt guilty about killing his wife regardless of the circumstances, he _was_ a respectable fighter at least, and most of all… he had nowhere else to go.

“Oh, wait! Before we leave…” she announced, jogging off back toward the Diamond Quarter, stopping at Garin’s stand. “I have plenty of coin now! The Deep Roads are rich indeed. I can buy that… ring… now…”

Frowning, she thoroughly searched the table. “The Lifegiver… did it sell?”

“Oh, oh yes!” Garin answered. “Though I can’t remember who… anyhow, it’s not here anymore! My apologies.”

“Oh…” Esfera looked forlornly down at the ground, then sighed, patted her thigh for Cookie to follow her, and joined Alistair at the exit to the Frostback Mountains, no idea at all that the ring she was looking for was still in Alistair’s pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't read the Codex entry for Caridin's journal, do so-- it's pretty fucked up


	16. Those Who Weren't Wardens

~~~~~~Azrien Mahariel: The Cautious One~~~~~~

He could still hear Tamlen’s laughter sometimes, echoing among the hills and trees as the Hunters of the Dalish made their way across the Blighted Ferelden lands, arrows cutting down the darkspawn that would destroy human farms and villages. Anytime a human confusedly thanked him for saving their caravan, or suspiciously questioned his motives for doing so, he swore he could hear Tamlen’s voice just over his shoulder, telling him that he should just kill the shems anyway, to keep the clan safe.

But Tamlen was gone, and Azrien knew it. In his mind, certainly, though his heart refused to accept it. No one could have been in a weakened state around so many darkspawn for so long and lived, no matter how strong or how stubborn. And yet… he still remembered the expression on Tamlen’s face as he’d looked into the mirror, the awe and confusion in his voice as he described an underground city. Then the fear.

_It saw me! Help! I can’t look away!_

Azrien squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, opening them again to see the leader of the Dalish forces from the Free Marches looking at him quizzically, her head tilted to the side.

“You alright, Mahariel?” she asked, spinning an arrow between her fingers.

“Yes, yes, of course, Lavellan. Merely remembering why we fight the Darkspawn.”

She cocked an eyebrow, the spinning arrow in her fingers coming to a sudden stop. “Because we owe some shem woman a debt?”

Azrien snorted. “That, yes. But we fight the darkspawn not to save humans, but because they are just as capable of taking away that which we hold dear as any shemlen.”

Rianeth Lavellan sighed, the arrow beginning to spin again. “Right, well, I just came in to report. Our scouts have reached Redcliffe Castle and they say that the gates are open and the soldiers are under explicit orders not to attack. About as good a welcome as we’re ever going to get.”

“Very good. Thank you, Lethallan. We will move our camp forward in the morning.”

She nodded and moved off, leaving Azrien to sigh and survey the ever-growing gathering of Dalish Hunters accompanying him to Redcliffe.

He wasn’t entirely sure how he had become their leader-- it was certainly unprecedented, as he was no mage and the Dalish were usually led by their Keepers-- but he supposed it had something to do with being one of the few who had encountered the darkspawn before the shemlens’ failure at Ostagar allowed the beasts to spread across the land. 

He had done his best to share the bitter wisdom of those experiences with his gathered people. Stay back, avoid the spray of blood.

 _Ever the cautious one,_ Tamlen had always said. But it kept the Dalish alive, just as it had kept Azrien alive when he and Tamlen had found that cursed mirror. Hanging back in the doorway, trying to convince Tamlen that they didn’t know what magics lurked within it, that they should go get the Keeper, or Merrill, _don’t touch it Tamlen, just wait, don’t--_

He remembered the explosion, the light… and then crawling on his hands back to the camp, wet with tears and blood. Keeper Marethari put him back together, but try as he might, he could not find Tamlen. In his anger, he’d destroyed the mirror, even as Merrill screamed at him to hold back. He was certain that she had not yet forgiven him.

But Merrill was many leagues away, now. With the rest of the Sabrae clan, fled to the Free Marches away from the darkness that Azrien and Tamlen had released. Azrien might have been with them, had the call to arms not reached them just as they were about to board the ship to Kirkwall. The Blight was spreading and the Dalish were obliged by treaty and favor to send aid, since a human Grey Warden had saved the clan in the Brecilian Forest from a curse of werewolves. Even before the messenger had finished speaking, Azrien had offered to stay behind in Ferelden and join the fight, much to Marethari’s disappointment and Ashalle’s misgivings.

Looking down at the Dalish camp now, he could hardly believe that they had started as a scattering of only a handful of volunteers from a few clans in the east. They numbered in the hundreds now, faces swirling with Vallaslin, bows of every shape and size shining with care and polish.

Infighting was common, more so than he wanted to allow the humans whose lives they saved to believe. Though the shems liked to believe that the “Dalish” were all one singular force of rebel elves unified by history and anger, the reality was that they were just as varied as the humans were. Could people live in such distant places that they meet only by chance and never become different from each other?

So Azrien had mediated, reminding them constantly of their common goal. That they did not fight for the sake of the shemlens, or even to try to prove their worth to them. They had tried that many times; he doubted the shems would change their minds about the Dalish no matter how heroic they were, not for more than a few decades. No, they fought because they must. Because they _could_.

He’d been surprised when Nerion had returned alongside the Lavellan woman and the others from the Free Marches, having expected the Sabrae to abandon Ferelden to its fate. But Nerion had, in turn, reminded Azrien that, though he may be a Mahariel in name, he would always be a member of the Sabrae Clan, and they would look after their own.

There was still much to be done, though. Young Hunters whose shooting skills yet needed improvement, elfroot and arrowheads to gather, halla and aravels to tend to. They had gathered, they had helped, they had hunted… but they were not yet an army. He could not grow reckless, complacent.

 _It never hurts to be cautious, Tamlen,_ he thought, rolling the gem of his father’s necklace through his fingers and hurrying down the hill, to do what he could to make his People into a respectable army before they even attempted to join the Redcliffe forces in the morning.

~~~~~~Leilani Surana: The Wild One~~~~~~

Leilani wasn’t actually _in_ the Tower when Uldred’s rebellion went off and there were demons and abominations everywhere and people were using blood magic and Templars were dying and running for their pathetic little lives. Not technically. It sounded quite exciting, though.

No, Leilani had been locked in the formerly spider-infested cave system underneath the Tower, waiting for a punishment that never arrived. For helping a blood mage break into the repository and destroy his phylactery, she very much expected to be made Tranquil. Not that she’d go down without a fight, of course. She’d die before they stripped her of all her magic and emotions, leaving her a lifeless husk like Owain, easy to order about and control. 

She’d never liked Templars, or the Chantry, or that stupid saying, “magic is meant to serve man, never to rule over him.” It always seemed like everyone only actually liked that first part, and the second part was only their excuse. Everybody likes having mages as passive, humble servants, so any attempt at agency was just a threat.

She’d seen the Tower as one giant, gilded cage all her life, but one where she’d die if she so much as shook the bars. She’d learned quickly to keep her head down, smile and nod, all the while filled with a rage that no Chantry teaching or magic lesson could quench.

So she learned to control her magic, her anger, her power. Sang a few verses of the Chant every now and then just to keep the Templars off her back. Underwent the Harrowing and finished it in record time.

Though she’d regretted doing so the moment Jowan had told her of his plan to escape. If only she hadn’t gone through the Harrowing, she could have destroyed _her_ phylactery as well. Seen the world, lived a _life_ . But if she couldn’t have freedom for herself, she’d at least do her best to help Jowan get his. He’d been her friend since childhood, of course she would help him. She _and_ Raiden.

She didn’t know how Irving found out about the plan and caught them, but he did, and Leilani hadn’t had the forethought to learn enough blood magic to help herself escape, like Jowan did. She was captured and locked away, though she still didn’t know what happened to Raiden.

She’d had guards for a while, Templars whose “discipline” tended to loosen as long as she wasn’t being outright hostile. Though she noticed that they never sent Cullen in for a shift at guard duty. _He_ at least was young and easy on the eyes. She’d always enjoyed his face when she flirted with him, watched him _sprint_ away when she suggested sleeping together. She didn’t hate his guts as much as the others.

But when the explosions and the screams had started, her guards had abandoned her, locking the doors behind themselves as they ran to do who-knows what, while she was left to only listen and wonder at the sounds of suffering. She’d had friends out there.

And then it was over, the Grey Warden had come and saved all of the mages, and every able-bodied mage was to join the army against the Blight. To Leilani’s surprise, that apparently included herself. She was let out of her cage and told to help fix up the Tower while a group of mages went to Redcliffe ahead of the main force in order to save a possessed child. Compared to weeks and weeks in a cage in a cave, for once being in the Tower felt like freedom, though the Templars watched her closer than ever. 

Some of the other mages whispered to her of what had happened to Cullen, and after a bit of reflection she’d decided to go to him, see if she could make him feel a bit better. He had, after all, been the least despicable of the Templars she knew. But he’d shouted, screamed, something about still having visions, to just let him rest, stop making him suffer by putting what he desires most in front of his eyes.

She’d just turned and run away, the gravity of all that had happened while she was imprisoned finally starting to hit her. More than the bloodstains or the funeral pyre.

One does not know the euphoria of the warmth of sunlight on the skin or the smell of rain and grass until it has been taken away for years and years. It was drug-like, the high of the sights and smells of all that existed outside the Tower, for a moment washing away all dark thoughts and memories, the fear of Templars or even the Blight, the reason she was being allowed to leave in the first place. 

There had been another mage in the Tower who had managed to escape several times who had told her about freedom before he was always caught again. She had listened with rapt attention, nodding emphatically when he talked about being a Libertarian, but nothing he had said had prepared her for the feeling of it. The _power_ of it. To not have Templars over her shoulder, to be allowed, even _encouraged_ to use her spells! 

Lightning crackled at her fingertips, ice froze even charging ogres, and the fires she called from the Fade could burn the darkspawn corpses so completely that their blood could not blight the land on which they died. She took to the battle with such delirious vigor that they even sent apprentices along with her, to unlearn the hesitation the Circle had spent so long instilling in them. Because if they continued to hesitate, they would die.

It was on one of these training raids, controlling the flow of the darkspawn horde away from Redcliffe, where the army was gathering, that she encountered the Grey Warden and her companions. Entirely by chance-- the Warden was on her way to Orzammar from the south.

She’d arrived along the road just as Leilani had shown an apprentice how to unleash a full-on tempest spell, lightning arcing across the whole field, jumping from one darkspawn to another until every single one of them was a smoking corpse.

Leilani ruffled the apprentice’s hair as he stared in awe down at his fingers and smiled at the Warden, this woman who was so entirely her opposite. 

The Warden nodded, sheathing her sword. “I see the mages are in good hands.”

Leilani shrugged. “We have been ready to fight our entire lives, Warden. This is only the first time we have been able to do so.”

The Warden frowned, glancing at the apprentice. “And what will you do when the Blight is over? Return to the Circle? To imprisonment and fear?”

Leilani tasted bile in her throat. “Not voluntarily.”

For a long moment, the Warden regarded her silently, then nodded. “I understand. I will try to help, if I can.”

“Much obliged, Warden. In the meantime, I’ll just keep killing darkspawn.”

The Warden’s lips turned up at the corners, and she gestured to her companions to continue moving along the road. “Just be careful, ser mage. There are many dangers in the world. Not all of them are things you can fight.”

And then she’d moved off along the road, leaving Leilani to remember something said by the demon who had tested her during her Harrowing:

_Simple killing is a warrior’s job. The real dangers of the Fade are preconceptions, careless trust… pride. Keep your wits about you, mortal. Some tests never end._

~~~~~~Raiden Amell: The Worried One~~~~~~

It was him. _He_ told Irving what Jowan’s plan was. 

He’d just done his Harrowing and he was scared and then he was scared for Jowan. He hadn’t actually believed that Jowan was a blood mage; he was only thinking that he needed to save Jowan from foolishly trying to escape. That Lily must have mis-seen the documents on Greagoir’s desk and Jowan was only being paranoid. He wouldn’t be made Tranquil for _rumors_ of doing blood magic, but he’d _certainly_ be made Tranquil for destroying his phylactery and escaping the Tower. They had threatened to do the same thing to that Anders fellow before he escaped the last time.

So while Leilani had hurried off to go get a flame rod to melt the locks on the repository door with, Raiden had excused himself and gone directly to Irving. He thought he was doing the right thing, that Irving would stop this insanity before it actually happened. He couldn’t believe his ears when instead Irving railed against the Chantry’s oppression, telling Raiden to go along with the plan so that Lily could be caught in the act of aiding a blood mage, since he “would not see their initiate go free while my apprentice suffers.”

It was frightening. He’d always thought of the First Enchanter as old but comforting, understanding, a person to go to when you were hurt or confused. He’d never thought that he too could be filled with as much anger as Leilani.

He remembered, just barely, when Leilani had been brought to the Circle. Most young mages, human and elf both, have a downcast, accepting look when they enter the Tower, sullenly looking down at their feet or smiling nervously as the Templars hand them over to the welcoming arms of their fellow mages.

Leilani was not like most mages. She’d arrived at the Tower kicking and screaming, held under a Templar’s arm like a bag of flour as she attempted to bite him through his gleaming armor, her curly brown hair all a mess as she shouted that all of them were murderers, kidnappers, hypocrites and cowards. The Templar had told her to shut up or she’d be made Tranquil before she even hit puberty. She’d only quieted down when one of the Enchanters… maybe it was Wynne… had cast a silence spell, that she would only remove when Leilani had calmed down.

Raiden and Jowan both had only been in the Circle a year earlier than her, and both still very small children, yet Raiden at least still vividly remembered that day. Even as Leilani quickly learned how to control her tongue, instead reserving her fierce glare for whenever the Templars turned their backs. Raiden had never understood her anger. The Templars had saved him from the fear and shame of the townspeople back in Kirkwall. The Circle kept them safe from the outside. 

Only after he’d passed his Harrowing and talked to Eadric, one of the older elven mages, did he learn that unlike almost all of the other young mages brought to the Tower, Leilani was probably Dalish. Raiden hadn’t wanted to think, at the time, about how that related to Leilani calling all of the Templars “murderers.”

He remembered that once after a history lesson about Kirkwall with Kinsey, one of the younger Enchanters, Leilani had turned to him and asked him if he resented being sent away.

When he’d asked her what she meant, she’d said, “well, if you hadn’t been a mage, you would be nobility, right? Nice, cushy life, all kinds of authority… in the Circle you’re just another dangerous brat.”

He’d been trying to protect Leilani just as much as Jowan when he’d told Irving of the plan. He’d even been relieved when they’d left the basement and Irving and Greagoir were waiting for them. But then Jowan used blood magic to get away and Leilani was being taken away in chains.

This isn’t what he wanted. None of this was what he wanted. Not even when Irving congratulated him for his help and let him keep the staff he’d found in the repository.

He was trying to figure out how to convince Irving and Greagoir to let Leilani go when first Uldred, then Wynne returned from the battle at Ostagar. He’d seen the flash of light from the meeting room and run toward it, only to be snatched by the abominations emerging seemingly from the walls themselves.

He didn’t know how long he sat in the Harrowing chamber, watching helplessly as one mage after another was tortured into accepting a bond with a demon. He struggled against the cloud in his mind that Uldred had placed, trying to overcome the blood magic controlling his body so that he could move his tongue enough to cast a spell, any spell.

It had felt hopeless, until the doors to the Harrowing chamber opened and Grey Warden Esfera Cousland stepped through, a glowing green sword in hand. As she’d fought with Uldred, Raiden had been able to feel the pull of the blood magic on his mind, demanding him to submit to the tear in the veil and come to Uldred’s aid. His arms were moving against his will, as if he was only a puppet and Uldred had the strings. But then there was Wynne, reciting the Litany of Andralla, and suddenly Raiden’s mind was his own again. His body was his own again. He shot spells at Uldred, ran to Irving to tend to his wounds… but only once the battle was over did he relax.

He was relieved when Leilani was released from her imprisonment to join the army, though he did not dare to visit her. When the Warden returned from Redcliffe in urgent need of mages to help her save the Arl’s son, Raiden agreed immediately to Irving’s suggestion to come along. Anything to get him away from the Tower, where all of these bitter events had taken place.

Imagine his surprise when he arrived at Redcliffe Castle only to find that the blood mage who had caused all of this death and sorrow was, in fact, Jowan himself.

He’d avoided Raiden’s gaze, bowed his head in shame as Irving chastised him… Raiden had never seen him so dejected. Though he supposed, Jowan’s heart was already broken. How much farther could he sink?

The Warden had had Wynne sent into the Fade to destroy the demon possessing Connor, which Raiden couldn’t help but agree with. Few Enchanters in the Tower were so good at calming children. But as he channeled the spell to send her unconscious mind into the Fade, Raiden couldn’t help but watch Jowan. Notice how hollow his face looked. See the cuts and bruises just under the cuff of his robes and know that he had been tortured.

As soon as the ritual was done and Connor was safely out of the clutches of a demon, Raiden had begged to be able to go to Jowan and heal his wounds. He knew his friend-- he was not lying about bringing the demon into Connor-- and the torture had been unjustified. Not that torture was _ever_ justifiable.

The Warden had nodded, holding out her arm to stop the Redcliffe guards that attempted to move toward him as he went to Jowan. They did not try to push past her.

“I see you became a spirit healer, just like Wynne,” Jowan said weakly as Raiden muttered several healing spells in quick succession. “You always were inspired by her.”

“Yes, well, I had a few stupid friends that were always getting into trouble,” Raiden scolded, his heart stinging when he saw Jowan’s embarrassed smile. “...I wanted to keep you safe. How am I supposed to do that now?”

Jowan shook his head. “It’s alright, Raiden. I’ll accept whatever fate the Arl has in store for me when he wakes up. It’s what I deserve.”

“No, it isn’t, Jowan! You don’t have to just accept it! You can argue, you can swear off blood magic, serve the Warden!”

Jowan laughed again, even as the guards hauled him to his feet and began pulling him away, to return to his cell. “Now you’re starting to sound like Leilani.”

Raiden felt his hope and relief begin to slip away, despair creeping into his voice as he said, “maybe Leilani was right.”

~~~~~~Lydia Tabris: The Vengeful One~~~~~~

Despite all of the suffering, the torture and the starvation, Lydia didn’t regret what she did, not even a little. She’d killed Vaughan Kendells, son of the Arl of Denerim. To save herself and her cousins, she’d cut a path of blood through the Arl’s estate, not stopping until Vaughan’s head rolled from his neck.

Call her a murderer, for she was one. Call her ruthless, because why shouldn’t she be? When the arl’s guards killed Lydia’s bridesmaid for shivering with fear while she begged them not to touch her, was that not ruthless? When the captain of the guard cut poor Nelaros’ neck and left him to bleed dry, was that not ruthless?

Oh, Nelaros. He hadn’t deserved to die. Lydia hadn’t wanted to get married, especially to a man she’d never met, let alone loved, but that didn’t mean he had to die. She was still… so, _so_ angry when she looked down at his body, pulled his fingers apart to see him still clutching his wedding ring in his hand. He might’ve been a good husband, she’d thought. A friend, at the very least. After all, he’d risked his life to try and save her, a woman he’d only just met. He couldn’t have known that she was capable of saving herself.

He couldn’t have known because she’d never told him. Her father had told her not to, so that the ferocity and combat training that was her only heirloom of her mother would not scare her potential husband away. _He’ll find out sooner or later,_ Lydia had argued. And her father had insisted that later was the much better option.

But “later” had become “too late.”

At first, she’d just planned on stealing everything she could get her hands on, telling her nervous cousin that “there was no better revenge than having this man’s greed and cruelty go directly into the pockets of the people he’s made suffer.” She’d stolen gold, jewels, alcohol, armor, weapons… enough treasure to fund fifty Alienage weddings. And Soris, even after he’d broken into the estate to save her and give her a sword, had still been afraid she’d get caught.

But then she’d seen Nelaros’ blood seeping into the floorboards and her anger had risen to new heights, even after living through the purge of the Alienage in which Soris’ parents had died, when humans slaughtered the elves left and right just because they could. As if unrelenting bloodshed was some kind of Maker-given right.

Then she’d seen Shianni, her lovely, fierce, strong-willed cousin, lying on the floor of Vaughan’s room in the center of a trio of smug-faced human men still retying their belts, while Shianni’s finest clothes were now torn, her smooth skin was covered in bruises, her characteristic Tabris red hair was torn out of its carefully arranged style, and there was blood under her cracked fingernails from her attempts to fight them off. 

If she had been a mage, she fully believed she would have summoned a rage demon just then. All of those years of learning how to sweet-talk her way out of trouble, of lying through her teeth and putting herself down just so that she wouldn’t give the human lords cause to kill her or her family… all of it was washed away by the blood on the blade that Soris had given her. Something he found in a storehouse at the edge of the Market District, he’d said. 

And yet she’d let Vaughan live long enough to hear his “deal.” Let him continue to make the women suffer in exchange for money and the chance to escape. As if “they’ll go home tomorrow… a little worse for wear” was any kind of payment for what he’d done. He’d barely finished his sentence before Lydia had thrown a dagger through his heart.

He’d lived for a while yet, not removing the dagger from his chest as he and his monstrous shemlen friends fought for his life. Honestly, Lydia barely remembered it. Everything was blood-colored.

She’d gotten Shianni and Soris back to the Alienage, back to her father’s house, just when the city guards had arrived, demanding to know who had slaughtered every single human in the Arl of Denerim’s estate.

Lydia had taken one look at Soris’ frightened face and his shaking legs and stepped forward, insisting that she alone was responsible. When he attempted to argue, she spoke over him, asking the guards if they really thought an elf who was so scared that he could barely form a sentence could possibly have enough courage to kill so many humans.

They needn’t know that Soris was only shaken by Shianni’s state, not by the blood he’d spilt alongside Lydia. He was a Tabris through and through, despite his shaking legs. But he would still never last in a prison dedicated to ensuring his suffering, controlled by people who didn’t care about his life. 

She didn’t actually know what prison she’d be going to while she awaited her execution, but it didn’t really matter, did it?

Lydia waited patiently while they removed every valuable thing they could find on her person, down to her last healing potion. Since they didn’t know how much of her equipment was stolen from the Arl’s estate, they simply assumed all of it was. Not that she expected otherwise. She was surprised they let her continue wearing her wedding dress even as they stuffed her in her cell. She’d fully expected them to strip her naked and leave her to die from hypothermia against the cold stone.

Now, in the dungeons of the Arl’s estate, waiting for Urien Kendells to return from Ostagar and determine her fate, there was nothing better to do but spin Nelaros’ ring around her finger, the only thing she’d managed or even bothered to hide from the guards who searched her.

She was fairly sure the guards had forgotten about her-- only a trickle of water from the ceiling had kept her alive for the days, weeks, months that she was in captivity there. She never gave up on escaping any way she could. Her blood-stained dress was torn all the way up to her smallclothes from attempting to make a brace with which to leverage the bars. Her fingernails worn down to the quick from trying to find weaknesses in the stone walls or something to open the lock.

She accepted her suffering only so that Shianni and Soris would not have to. She could only hope that her imprisonment was enough, that her family would not suffer more for the blood that she shed. But in her cell, there was no way for her to know, to rescue them from the reminder that Alienage elves were “free” only on legal documents. In reality, they were less than slaves. They were penned animals.

Still, she did not regret the blood she’d shed. She’d do it over again, time and again, if it meant saving Shianni from that monster. If it meant giving the humans some pause before mercilessly tormenting elves for once.

_You killed them, didn’t you? You killed them all?_

Like dogs, Shianni.

_Just like they always kill us._

~~~~~~~Nerik Brosca: The Lucky One~~~~~~~

The Deep Roads weren’t even that bad compared to Dust Town. Not better, exactly, but not really worse, either. About the same amounts of grime, awful stench, and constant threat of death. Honestly, after killing Beraht so that he couldn’t go after his sister, Nerik barely even noticed the difference.

Okay, maybe he’s grandstanding a little. Let’s back up.

He hadn’t set out to overthrow the leaders of Orzammar’s underground. He’d just wanted to protect his sister, Rica. Ancestors know that their mother wasn’t going to do it. And “Dust Town Thug” was just about the only option open to a casteless man. At least Rica had the _option_ of “noble hunter.”

In general, Nerik thought himself pretty sodding lucky. In terms of the circumstances that the Stone brought him into the world with, not really, no. But his ability to survive. Stuff like tumbling from the bridge over the lava pits and managing to fall into a crane moving stone from one side of the city to the other instead of burning alive in lava.

All his life he’d dodged certain-death circumstances like nobody’s business. He’d eaten plenty of questionable things and managed to be the only Duster not to get sick. Or the food from the soup pots would run out right before he could get to it, but it also meant he was the only one not shitting himself to death a few hours later. If Beraht hired him for anything, it wasn’t for his aim with his crossbow or his strong arms. It was most definitely just because he was lucky. 

The day Beraht had him fix the Provings in order to win some bets, Nerik would pretty definitely say his luck had run out. At least temporarily.

Everd wasn’t _supposed_ to be passed out drunk when they got into the Proving Grounds. But Beraht would kill Rica if Everd didn’t somehow manage to win his fight. So yes, Nerik had put on Everd’s armor and acted as high-and-mighty as he always imagined upper-caste members to think themselves. Apparently he’d done a good sodding job, because no one suspected a thing until that stupid Everd showed up.

It took only a few moments for the crowd to transition from “whoo, yay! What an incredible champion!” to “impostor! Criminal! Desecration!”

So yes. Then it was off to prison with him. But it didn’t end there! Oh no! _Then_ he was sent to Beraht’s _personal_ prison to meet the worst death imaginable only _after_ he made Rica suffer.

But as luck would have it… he had a way out. Wood splinters in the rubble of his cell with which he could pick the lock on his door, then save Leske’s sorry hide. Took him a few tries and almost as many splinters of wood, but he managed it. Good thing he was pretty good at picking locks.

After that, it was just his luck that there were some doors conveniently left open, some new duster leather armor left unsecured… and then it was straight to Beraht to send a crossbow bolt through his neck before the bastard could throw Rica to the deepstalkers he called his lieutenants.

Even Nerik knew that there was only so far that luck could carry you, though. So when Beraht was dead and Leske was free, Nerik didn’t take his time heading into the Deep Roads. Beraht was warrior-class, had too many connections to the guard. And if they came after him in Dust Town, Rica would suffer for it. 

Really, he only planned to be in the Deep Roads long enough to find an exit out to the surface, but those ended up being much more difficult to find than he’d banked on. Tunnels were collapsed everywhere, so much that it would take lyrium-based explosives to clear the rubble away.

Nerik had survived on lichen, moss, cave-water, and some giant spiders for a while, but he was getting tired. He wasn’t real great at hand-to-hand combat, tried to avoid it when he could. But with the darkspawn groups getting bigger and bigger as he got farther into the Deep Roads, he realized that he wasn’t going to be able to pick them off from a distance forever. He’d only just barely managed to survive the last ambush.

The luckiest event in his whole life, he would say, was meeting Mirra Aeducan down there in the dark. It was the most buckwild thing he’d ever thought in his entire life, since generally “ Casteless thief, ran into one of the highest-ranking Nobles in Orzammar,” was something someone said right before an execution, but at that moment when he was about to get choked to death by a hurlock alpha and that woman’s sword came out of nowhere and chopped the beast’s sodding arm off? Best luck ever.

He hadn’t known who she was at first, of course. He’d just been relieved at being able to feel air through his lungs again. And her torn, dirty clothes and grime-smeared face didn’t exactly scream “princess.” He’d thought she was an escaped criminal, just like him. Which, apparently, she was. He’d kind of run away from Orzammar _just_ before the whole eldest-prince-assassinated-by-one-sibling-or-the-other thing happened. 

She did have a pretty I’m-better-than-you way of talking that he caught onto right away as soon as the group of darkspawn was dead. It was only five hours later when they were hiding out nearby an underground waterfall that he even though to ask her name. He’d thought “ah, noble” when she said her last name was Aeducan; he didn’t really make the connection to “King Endrin Aeducan” until she’d said something about “the royal armor at least being comfortable.” And why should he have? It wasn’t like a Casteless was going to be anywhere close enough to a princess to know what she looked like.

He’d never tell her this, but she _was_ beautiful. In a sturdy, I’ll-crush-your-skull-between-my-palms kind of way, but he was kind of into that. Those long rows of blonde braids must have taken lots of care-- something only nobles could afford. Almost every casteless woman Nerik knew kept her hair cut short unless she was noble-hunting.

But there was also a distant look to her, a kind of longing. Something in those golden brown eyes that made it seem as if she was always buried in the past. He’d learned not to ask. She only talked when she felt like talking.

Of course, that beauty only bought her a little bit of Nerik’s patience. For all her strength kept him alive against the darkspawn, he was basically the only thing keeping her alive against starvation. He had to teach her how to scavenge, to smack her every time she tried to gag up her food. She was casteless, just like him, now. Her food would probably never taste good again. And yes, almost all of it was going to be slimy.

He hadn’t been the nicest to her, but why should she be? Almost immediately after saving his life she’d regretted it because he was Casteless. He doubted she’d seen any of his kind any more than he’d ever seen any of hers. 

They fought constantly. She would tell him some shit about the Caste system being right and natural, and would get all mad when he told her that she could only say that because she was at the top and made sure no one at the bottom ever had the strength to do better. He reminded her that without the help of a “Casteless thug,” she’d be dead already. If she was born superior, that wouldn’t be the case.

It was only after she realized that they had both managed to get Blighted that she really started listening to what he had to say. That she finally told him what really happened with Trian and Bhelen. That, as much as she hated her brother for what he’d done to her, he was the only one who was going to do _anything_ to help Rica. That Nerik’s sister was worth more than Bhelen’s “pet.”

But the argument was little more than a distraction. He had managed to convince the spoiled princess to change her mind, which he was endlessly smug about, believe him. But he knew that this far from Orzammar, and with her name and rank struck from the Memories, Mirra Aeducan’s change of heart meant about as much to the people back home as a clump of dirt in a barrel of ale.

They were probably going to die eventually anyway, unless they got really, _really_ lucky.

  
~~~~~~Mirra Aeducan: the Hopeful One~~~~~~

She admitted it; she’d been lying through her teeth when she’d told that Warden why she should choose Bhelen as king. She was fully aware that Bhelen had framed her for Trian’s death, or else the two people who had been alongside her when she found her elder brother’s body wouldn’t have outright lied about seeing her murder him. And the guard wouldn’t have said “Bhelen was right!” when they saw her leaning over Trian’s body.

Not _all_ of it had been lies-- she really _had_ gotten along with Bhelen much better than Trian her entire life, Trian most certainly actually had tried to have her assassinated, and Nerik really had changed her mind about what it meant to be Casteless. 

However, she kept the extent of her rage at her brother to herself. The realization that she had likely never truly known Bhelen at all. She had told Esfera that Harrowmont had been scheming to take advantage of the fratricide to stage a coup, but she actually doubted that was true. Bhelen was the one who had spent months, maybe even years, bribing and urging the Assembly to move against her when she was condemned for her brother’s murder.

Why then? Why support Bhelen?

To be honest, she didn’t. If she was in front of the Assembly she would make up some nonsense about being the better person or doing what was best for Orzammar over her own feelings of revenge, but both she and Nerik knew she would be lying. 

She knew how dwarven politics worked. If it had truly come down to Bhelen versus Harrowmont in the Assembly, then whoever won would have the other imprisoned or executed so that Orzammar “would not be divided.” If Harrowmont became king, she would never have the chance to enact justice against her brother for herself. A dead Bhelen could not look upon her with shock as she strode into the hall, clad in darkspawn blood. A dead Bhelen could not be forced into declaring all claims of his sister’s betrayal null and void. And a dead Bhelen could not uphold the honor of the Aeducan name. 

Not that she believed he himself had any honor. But that was how it worked-- if Harrowmont became king now, her family’s name would lose its strength, and she would have no chance at redemption.

No, the only way for her to ever return to Orzammar, to have justice, and regain her honor… was for Bhelen to become king. 

She suspected it was for this reason that Nerik was uncharacteristically quiet during her conversation with Esfera Cousland and her companions.

When she had first seen the humans, she’d hoped instantly that they were Wardens. With the taint in both of their bloods, she knew that without the assistance of a Grey Warden, they would die and their revenge meant nothing. Or worse, they could also become like Ruck, scavenging from unfortunate corpses as he lost his mind to the Archdemon’s song. 

She’d been filled, _flooded_ with a hope she had not felt in many days. She and Nerik were getting better and better at hiding from the darkspawn, especially with Nerik’s lessons on how to blend in with the shadows… but they still would not last forever.

But they could not help, and now the only hope was to reach Orlais. While the Warden and her companions wandered toward the Dead Trenches in search of Paragon Branka, Mirra and Nerik pushed further and further west, praying to the ancestors that they would find a way to the surface before their sickness overcame them. As subtle as it had been at first, it was starting to weaken them.

Her fever had grown fierce enough to cloud her eyes sometimes, and every step was painful. But still she pressed on, hoping that Nerik was still behind her. They had come so far together, they could not give up now.

She saw the shape in the tunnel as little more than a feverish blur the same size as a hurlock. Her arms felt as if they weighed more than lead and gold, yet she still managed to lift her sword, too weak to attempt the sneak attack she had managed on Esfera’s group. 

She charged, but a strong hand caught her arm. Closer to her target, she could see hints of blue cloth amidst the armor. A shining emblem on the chest. Some type of bird. And she could hear a voice, softer than any she had heard in such a long time, in an accent she could barely understand. Orlesian.

“A dwarf? Has the Legion really come all the way to Jader?”

She squinted up at him, still feeling his grip on her arm. “...Jader?”

The voice said, “yes, you are in the Deep Roads near Jader, on the northwestern coast of Orlais. You… look unwell, my friend. Have you… contracted the Blight?”

“And you? What are you doing here?” Mirra asked, the hope more powerful than she could control, more than she could stand, overtaking everything else in the world. 

“Forgive me. I am Riordan, Senior Grey Warden of Jader. Please, friends, let me help you.”

Mirra felt… water against her face. Dripping down her chin. “We have reached the Orlesian Wardens, then?”

“Yes, of course. Come, I will lead you to the surface. We may save you, but only through conducting your Joining. If you have truly made it here with only the two of you, I would say you have easily passed any required test.”

Mirra felt a hand on her shoulder and knew it to be Nerrik’s. They were here. They had made it.

“But first, Warden, there is so much to tell. It is most urgent.”

She felt the human grip her shoulder to help her walk as he asked, “what could be more urgent than your lives?”

“We come bearing news from Ferelden. The Blight is ravaging the kingdom and the Archdemon will rise soon. Almost all of the Wardens died holding back the horde at Ostagar, and those who remain are inexperienced. They… need… help…”

Overcome by exhaustion and relief, her message finally delivered, Mirra succumbed to the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided that I wanted a version of the story where the other origins didn't die or just not exist. Instead, I thought, "what would happen to them if Duncan wasn't there to save them? And here we are.
> 
> I admit, I did the thing where I was like "oh they're just minor OCs, don't spend too much time on them"  
> ...and then I completely fell in love with every. Single. One of them. I actually went through each of the Origins just to write this chapter lol. Though I will say, DA:O's character generator for creating non-white characters SUCKS. Mirra is black (though I know Bhelen and Trian don't look like they are I'm modifying canon so that they are) Leilani is Hawaiian coded, and Raiden is Japanese-coded (since I already code Naiyah Hawke as such and they ARE related).


	17. Esfera Cousland- Honor

Any relief at finally having left Orzammar and the Deep Roads behind them was short-lived. The Blight had spread farther and faster than she’d feared, the darkspawn forming roving bands that attacked all in their path. Esfera and her friends were able to dispatch them fairly easily, especially with the help of the patrols sent out by the Dalish and Circle forces, but their presence alone was worrisome. 

When the shrieks attacked their camp she was once again saved by Cookie, whose warning barks and growls awoke her fast enough to grab her sword and shield and cut the beasts down, but they got in quite a few scratches since she wasn’t used to fighting without armor. She was bleeding from several places, her clothes torn, about to call for Wynne’s magic when she felt her hand being lifted into the air, calloused fingers dancing across her skin as she looked up just in time to see Alistair slip a ring onto her finger. A simple golden ring inlaid with a glittering crystal ruby.

Almost immediately she could feel strength course through her veins, feel the slight itch of magic as her wounds began to close themselves, though Wynne was still tending to her own injuries. Esfera looked between the ring and Alistair with incredulity.

“The Lifegiver…” she breathed, “ _you_ bought it?!”

He shrugged, but his face was rapidly turning red. “Yes, I, well… you seemed so intrigued by it, I just thought… I wasn’t really _busy_ while you were in the Deep Roads, so I--”

She leaned forward and kissed him, but quickly fell into laughter. “Oh you silly, silly man… I wanted to buy it for _you!_ ”

He blinked. “...me?”

She laughed again, holding the ring to the firelight and watching the ruby gleam. “I have no real interest in fine jewelry, but… I find myself terrified by the idea of you getting harmed. I had hoped if the magic in this ring could protect you, I may not be so afraid.”

He crossed his arms. “Oh, why do _I_ need protecting and not _you,_ hmmmm? You don’t think I was terrified out of my mind at the thought of losing you in the Deep Roads, never knowing if you were going to return?”

Esfera laughed, grabbing one of the shriek corpses and beginning to drag it over to the pile that their companions were assembling at the edge of camp for the burning. “Alright, alright. I accept your gift, my love. But the _expense!_ Where did you get the money for it?!”

Alistair grinned. “If I keep only one secret from you in my entire life, can it be this one?”

She never got the chance to answer him, though, because Morrigan arrived from behind them and threatened to set _them_ on fire instead of the shrieks if they didn’t stop making eyes at each other and focus on the task at hand.

~~~~~~~~~~

As they approached Redcliffe, Esfera’s heart was lifted as she looked upon the forces gathered in and around the castle, stretching almost all the way down the hill to the town. Scores of tents, halla, and even bronto decorated the hillside leading up to the castle walls. She smelled and heard the sensations of a war camp, the sounds of whetstones and hammers against blades and crackling campfires, the smells of tanning leather and roasting meat, the sight of armor shining in the sun, the colors of vallaslin and war paint. 

It reminded her --with a wave of simultaneous nostalgia and nausea-- of Ostagar. So much of it all was identical, even down to the mix of courage and despair permeating the atmosphere. 

But this was a very different camp, she told herself. This time, Ferelden’s fate would not rest solely upon the shoulders of men. Now its people, _all_ of its people, were rising to face their true foe. 

After stopping by Dwyn’s house in the village and… _convincing_ him to return Sten’s sword to him, she made her way up the hill through the war camp and past the wide-open castle gates to the courtyard, where the twang of bowstrings and the clanging of swords told her that this spot had been converted into a training area for the camp. She smiled at the eager, nervous, confident recruits, bowing her head a little at Leilani Surana, who she recognized from the Circle’s patrols.

Eamon and Teagan both greeted them eagerly, expounding with the news of their success, dwarven forces already beginning to arrive at the camp. But first…

Esfera dropped to her knees, sliding an additional bundle she’d been carrying over her pack off of her back and presenting it to the Guerrin lords. 

“Arl Eamon of Redcliffe and Bann Teagan of Rainesfere, many weeks ago we made a return journey to the ruins of Ostagar at the behest of a steward to the late King Cailan. There, among many memories and many more darkspawn, we managed to recover… these.”

She untied the bundle, allowing the shining golden armor-- which she’d spent several nights at camp cleaning and polishing herself to remove the darkspawn filth, with Alistair’s help-- to come into full view, both lords’ eyes widening as they took it in.

“...I present to you the armor of a king, both as a gift of thanks for the aid of Redcliffe against the coming Blight and because it seems as if the best place for this is here, among what little remains of poor Cailan’s family.”

Immediately, Eamon demanded explanation, and Esfera and Alistair willingly gave it, even while the rest of their party wandered off toward the rooms they were used to keeping at the castle. Ostagar, burning Cailan’s body, then Orzammar, the Deep Roads… Alistair accepting Maric’s blade but Cailan’s armor being just too much... 

“And you have carried it? All this time and all this way?” Eamon asked, a touch of awe in his voice.

“Well, actually we took turns. And it sat in our rooms in Orzammar’s royal palace most of the time I was in the Deep Roads. But otherwise… yes. It was the least we could do to ensure Cailan’s memory returned to those who loved him.”

Eamon smiled. “Thank you, Lady Cousland. Redcliffe… _I_ … will never forget your great deeds.”

She continued smiling, but it was forced. “Alistair is just as responsible for this as I am. You were supposed to have raised him, after all? You should be clamoring to congratulate him.”

“Ah, yes, I… of course. Gratitude is best when evenly shared. Now come-- we can wait only a few days for the army to grow. Then, we must go to Denerim, to face Loghain and the Landsmeet.”

 _Good to notice how well you have avoided thinking of Alistair as your son,_ Esfera thought, controlling her face well enough for Eamon to not notice the bitterness.

~~~~~~~

They had only just gotten themselves settled into Arl Eamon’s estate in Denerim when Loghain arrived to “pay his respects.” And for all that Loghain had done to Ferelden, against the Wardens, against Cailan and even Alistair, Esfera would have been able to control herself. She had lost some of her political self-control while in Orzammar, she admitted, but her days with Eamon had quickly brought it back.

When Arl Howe followed Loghain through the great doors of the estate, however, all other faces in the room disappeared. She tasted acid on her tongue, could once again smell the ash in Highever’s air, hear the screams and the pounding at the gate, feel the moisture of her father’s blood on her fingertips.

Her hand flew to the hilt of her sword, her thumb resting on the engraving of the Cousland coat of arms on the pommel. The song in her mind spoke of freedom, of release. To kill him now, while he least expected it. 

She felt Alistair grip her arm and she grit her teeth, focusing on the familiarity of his touch and dedicating every last bit of her strength to keeping her arm from unsheathing her sword and swinging it through Howe’s traitorous neck, so that his smug smile would remain frozen on his face as his severed head fell to the ground.

So focused was she on glaring daggers at Howe’s disgusting, vile, weasel-like face that she almost didn’t hear Loghain comment about what a shame it was that the Wardens “chose to turn against Ferelden.”

 _Kill him, kill him, kill him, kill him, kill them both, them all, they deserve it,_ the song told her. But she could not act without justice. If she slew Loghain now, his allies would never rally behind the Gray Wardens. She would curse her order to a reputation of traitors and assassins, just like Loghain claimed them to be. Briefly, she wondered what had happened in his life to make him hate Wardens so. There had to be more to it than Cailan’s foolish obsession with glory.

She tightened her grip on the hilt of her sword. “My order died for Ferelden, facing the darkspawn so that _you_ could flee. It is disappointing to see a man of such high esteem smearing their names into the dust he walks on instead of thanking them for their sacrifice, as is proper. And I am here to make sure that shame is known.”

“You should curb your tongue!” Loghain shouted, his anger rising to a height Esfera felt but knew better than to show herself. “This is _my_ city, and no safe place to speak treason. For anyone.”

“That is strange. It seems more treasonous to claim that Denerim belongs to you when in fact you are Teyrn of _Gwaren_ , far to the south. We are indeed a very long way from _your_ city.”

But then, from Loghain’s side: “It is _mine,_ though,” Howe interjected, his sneer spreading across his lips. “Despite my obligations as Teyrn of Highever _and_ Arl of Amaranthine, _someone_ had to step up as Arl of Denerim after Urien’s unfortunate fate at Ostagar.”

Just the word “Highever” from Howe’s nasally voice was enough to make Esfera snap. She felt herself lurch forward, to spit on him, tear him to pieces, to cut his guts open and let him bleed on the cobblestones, like he had done to Esfera’s poor nephew.

Fortunately, Eamon stopped her, his arm surprisingly strong despite his age. He grasped her shoulder, sending her a warning glance.

She bit her tongue hard enough to taste blood, stepping back and saying merely, “that is many titles for one man to have.”

 _Fine._ It had been enough to see Howe flinch. He knew what he was doing. If she lost control, he would win. She could not disrespect her parents’ memories by allowing that to happen.

She managed to swallow back her words, her anger, until Loghain tried to plea for Eamon to stand down so that they could face the Blight.

“What efforts can there be when you outlaw the Grey Wardens?!”

“Cailan depended on the Grey Warden’s prowess against the darkspawn and look how well that ended. Let us speak of reality rather than tall tales. Stories will not save us.”

“You speak of them as if they were not flesh and blood people, Teyrn. Was Duncan a fairy tale?” Esfera asked, watching the way Loghain’s nostrils flared when she said that name. She was right. There was something more behind his hatred of the Wardens. 

But whatever Loghain was about to say in response, Eamon interrupted, announcing his disapproval of what Loghain had done and his resolution to put a Theirin on the throne, despite Alistair’s meager protests. 

Only once Loghain, Howe, and Ser Cauthrien had retreated from the estate did Esfera release her anger, kicking over a suit of armor and watching the helmet roll off across the floor. 

Eamon frowned at her disapprovingly. “I am surprised at you, Lady Cousland. I had thought you well-suited for politics. You did, after all, manage to gather armies of rather unexpected allies.”

“Under normal circumstances, yes. But Eamon, I cannot look in the eyes of the man who murdered my entire family and congratulate him for the power he’s obtained. I can’t.”

“And I would not expect you to. But bear in mind that he is well-protected by his allegiance with Loghain. He always seemed the kind of man who enjoyed kicking stray dogs. I would not have thought Loghain would trust him.”

Esfera squeezed the hilt of her sword again, her eyes watering. “I wished him success in battle the last time I saw him, Eamon. To be polite. Forgive me for refusing to taste that bitterness again.”

For a moment, Eamon softened, looking at her with pity. But then he suggested only that she take some time to gather her wits, then explore the city, learn as much of Loghain’s schemes as possible. He would be in his study when she was ready.  
~~~~~~~~~~~

As promised, Esfera spent the rest of the day visiting various noble estates, her heart aching with the familiarity of hearing her visits announced. To be “Lady Cousland, daughter of Teyrn Bryce Cousland” had once been so normal, so unquestionable, that she had almost never actually heard it when it was said. But it had been months since she had been introduced in such a way. It was such a small thing, so small she hadn’t even realized she’d missed it, a piece of a life she was certain she’d never live again. Hearing her noble title announced in great, resounding halls was like digging through a chest of forgotten belongings and finding her favorite childhood toy. 

She heard it almost a dozen times over the course of the day as she visited as many Banns and Arls as she could remember ever meeting in her youth, either by visiting Denerim or being visited by them in Highever. They all happily greeted her, inviting her to tea, to ale, to tell stories of her mother and father, express their grief. Though Esfera did not know how much she could truly trust them. Though their eyes widened when she told each of them how her parents had truly died, she did not honestly know if she had won their votes or not. After all, her parents had once trusted Howe, too.

Her true test of her diplomatic skills was a Templar knight who demanded a fight to the death to get justice for Ostagar, whom she somehow managed to talk out of the foolish choice. When he finally bowed his head and walked away, she felt a small growth in her hope that her talks with the nobility had been successful. If she could talk a man out of vengeance, maybe she had been able to talk the nobles into sensibility.

When the moon rose in the sky and she rejoined her companions in the Market District after their long day of drumming up support and intelligence from the common folk of Denerim (except the Alienage, which remained staunchly closed off), she agreed to help the Captain of the Guard with some troublesome thugs, though they attacked her even after she managed to intimidate them away from the brothel they were harassing.

While at this “inn,” she was intrigued to meet the Rivaini captain, Isabela, frustrated when she continued losing to the woman at Wicked Grace, knowing that she was cheating but unable to prove it. Eventually she had to turn to Zevran for help, since he seemed to know the woman from somewhere, though he would not elaborate and Esfera did not force him to. 

As interesting as her encounter with Isabela was, however, Esfera was mostly disturbed by the Warden-Hunters she found in a back room of the same brothel. She had found the room by following the coded message on a flyer in the Market District, which claimed to be looking for fellow Warden supporters. She’d suspected a trap, but the way the mercenary Paedan talked about their success, she feared that they were not the first Wardens lured in by it. 

They fell beneath her sword when they attempted to collect their bounty, but she was well satisfied by the letter she found on Paedan’s body as evidence of Howe and Loghain’s crimes. Arl Eamon would be pleased.

Finally, she also met Ignacio of Antiva before leaving the Pearl and felt like an idiot for bringing Zevran along to a meeting with someone who should have been obvious to her as a member of the Crows! He promised that he would not report on Zevran after Esfera brought herself to her full height upon denying his request for help in assassinations, but still she was nervous.

When Taliesen found her on a set of steps through the city during her return journey to Eamon’s estate, she knew her nerves were justified.

She suspected immediately that he was not there for her, not truly. He stood out too much in his dark Antivan armor. He would have been much more likely to succeed had he dressed like a commoner and stabbed her as she walked by, unsuspecting. Still unlikely considering her armor, the Lifegiver, and her general sensitivity to bloodlust honed by her many days alongside Leliana and Zevran… but still much more likely than confronting her head-on.

No, he was clearly not looking for an assassination. He wanted a fight. He wanted Zevran, and Esfera was not willing to give him away. She noticed Zevran look at her in wonder as she defended him, called him friend, demanded that the Crows let him go. She wasn’t sure why he was surprised. She loved Zevran. As annoying as his flirtation was, he had genuinely stopped once she had insisted on it. She’d pitied him, laughed at and with him, fought alongside him, trusted his blade at her back… something no noble would ever say about an assassin, let alone one that had already attempted to kill her. But she did. She trusted him, genuinely believed that he would not turn on her. And he hadn’t. 

There was regret in Zevran’s eyes when Taliesen lay dead, a pain Esfera could not comfort as she placed a hand on his shoulder. “I wish it did not have to end this way.”

“Oh but it did, Warden,” he answered with forced nonchalance. “Though he was… a good friend. And more.” He wiped the blood from the Topsider’s Honor, restoring it to the sheath on his back. “But now… there is a freedom awaiting me that I have never known. But I suppose the decision is yours. Will you let me go?”

He looked up at her with a fierce mix of emotion in his eyes, no matter how she could tell he was forcing his expression to remain under control. Grief, fear, but most of all a hope burning so brightly in his golden eyes that it was hard to look at. It made her heart sting to see, and more to think about losing him. “Zev… you know I would never deny you such freedom. If… you wish to go, I want you to do as your heart desires.”

“I… see.”

The hope in his eyes died, and she suddenly realized the mistake in what she’d said. “-- _But_ … I wish you would stay. For the stories, for the adventure, for…” her voice caught, against her will. “For being my friend, Zev. I do not wish to lose you when there is so much to be done.”

At this, the light returned to his eyes almost immediately as he agreed, though making some commentary about how she would be lost without him, so of course he couldn’t leave just yet.

Though she rolled her eyes, Esfera smiled as she followed him up the stairs, leaving the scene of Zevran’s freedom behind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a bizarre irony that only shortly after killing a group of assassins she was now dressing up like a guard, distracting patrols, and infiltrating a nobleman’s estate. Like an assassin would.

She’d had only a night’s rest before going to Eamon in his office and instead finding an elven maid demanding that she go save Queen Anora from Arl Howe’s clutches.

Which brought her here, accompanied by two rogues and a mage as she snuck through the current living space of her worst enemy, after promising that she would not use the opportunity to murder him. Not that the temptation was not there. And Leliana and Zevran were _very_ supportive of the idea.

Alistair had wanted to come, too, and in her heart of hearts she wanted him to be there, to have him at her side if it did come down to a battle against Howe. But her logic won out. She could not bring the man they planned to put forward as king directly into their enemy’s lair. It was too much of a risk.

The deeper they plunged into the Arl of Denerim’s mansion, however, the happier she was that she’d brought Leliana. The bard seemed to have an uncanny familiarity with the space that she would not explain, but Esfera would not push her to tell. Her lockpicks were particularly useful, though. Howe was rather irresponsible with his gold, just _leaving_ it behind only one locked door and inside a locked chest. What a _shame_ it would be if the gold he stole from Highever mysteriously ended up supporting the army of the Grey Wardens!

She received no complaint from Zevran or Leliana, though she could see Wynne’s stern pursed lips even through the guard helmet she was wearing. Admittedly, that was the main reason she’d brought the mage. She needed the rogues to help her move quietly, but she needed Wynne to stop her from doing something she might regret. A duty she very much could not trust her other two friends with.

Despite Wynne’s disapproval, her looting paid off when she found a chest near the entrance to what appeared to be a _dungeon_. A chest that contained what looked like Grey Warden documents.

She was still looking at them, trying to figure out the code protecting them, when she was confronted by the guard at the base of the steps. She almost dropped the documents in her haste to grab her sword, but she needn’t have bothered.

She watched with awe as a pair of naked arms reached out and grabbed the guard by the neck, yanking his head backwards into the metal bars and then snapping his neck. Plenty desensitized to death by this point, Esfera stuck the documents into her pocket while she heard the clinking of belts and metal inside the cell, waiting patiently for the now-free prisoner to come into view.

Finally, he did, patting his stolen clothes off and saying in a soft voice just barely tinged with an Orlesian accent, “I thank you for creating the distraction, stranger. I have been waiting days for the opportunity. You never hear music in the sound of a key turning in a lock until you have been imprisoned.”

Esfera glanced between the now-dead guard and the man, her sword still raised in front of her. “Impressive moves, old man.”

The man raised a dark eyebrow, his face twisting in disgust. “Perhaps introductions are in order, if only so that you never call me that again. I am Riordan, Senior Grey Warden of Jader. And you-- you must be--”

Whatever Riordan thought she was, he was cut short by Esfera lurching forward and pulling him into a crushing embrace.

_Senior Grey Warden._

Maybe the Maker did exist after all. For so long she had been stumbling through the dark, hopeless, helpless. Wishing for a hand to guide her. And finally, here he was. Suddenly, despite the terrible, cheap make of her borrowed armor, she felt lighter than she had since the day she had awoken in Flemeth’s hut.

“I take it you are happy to see me,” Riordan managed to get out, muffled by his face being pressed up against her breastplate. “Though from what those dwarves tell me, I can understand the reason.”

Esfera pulled away from him, blinking down at him in confusion. _Those dwarves?_

Then suddenly it all came to her, their friends in the Deep, the beautiful, strong princess and the skilled survivor.

“Mirra and Nerik! They managed to reach you! Are they alright?! Were you able to save them?!”

Riordan pushed his scraggly black hair out of his face and nodded, glancing nervously at the door. “Yes, they travelled a long way for their salvation. Both were close to death or becoming ghouls, such that I feared the Joining may arrive too late. But they are recovering yet in Jader.” He smiled. “They will make fine Wardens.” He pulled away from her, clearly a bit embarrassed at simply being yanked into her embrace. “They told me that the fate of Ferelden was being left in the hands of two inexperienced Grey Wardens, but I see that I have nothing to worry about. All that you need to know it seems you have learned for yourself.”

“That is not true! There is so much I don’t know, so many questions--”

Riordan raised a hand and Esfera fell silent. “All in time. Now I must go, find some food and a skilled physician. I will be of little help to you as weakened as I am.”

He briefly explained using his skills as a rogue to infiltrate the borders of Ferelden after all of Orlais’ large forces of Grey Wardens had been rebuffed, even visiting the ruins of Ostagar and trying to count the dead, but then foolishly drinking a goblet of wine offered to him by Loghain because he thought his identity had not yet been discovered.

Before he began making his way up the stairs toward his freedom, he stopped to look back at her sympathetically. “I am sorry about what happened to your family, Lady Cousland. I was born in Highever. It will always remain a home to me.”

Slowly, Esfera nodded, tears stinging at the corners of her eyes. “May it be home to you still, Ser.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shortly after Riordan was freed Esfera decided to abandon their disguises, since they were apparently no longer of any use. While all of the guards in the main estate were new and apparently expendable, those in the dungeons were hand-picked and knew each other by only the sound of their footsteps. Something Zevran might be able to replicate, but Esfera certainly could not.

Fortunately, no one had managed to find the armor that she had stashed away in the conveniently well-locked treasure room they had plundered, so it was relatively easy to return there, grab their preferred outfits, and change, Leliana’s nimble fingers so used to helping Esfera put on her armor at this point that it took hardly any time at all to get on. 

When they returned to the dungeons, the more Esfera found the more disgusted she became. With Howe, certainly, and the perverse joy he seemed to get out of imprisoning and torturing people, but with herself, too. Her family, even. How could he have been this twisted and they never knew? How had they even trusted him in the first place?

After they pushed into yet another section of well-guarded cells only to once again find neither Rendon Howe nor the mage that was likely beside him, securing the spell entrapping Queen Anora in the guest bedroom, she instead found more reasons to be disturbed. In one cell, a poor soldier from Ostagar, already twisted beyond recovery by trauma and the darkspawn Taint. She quietly assured him that his family was looking for him, but it seemed like he hardly understood her.

In the other cell, however, was a red-haired elven woman in torn and bloodstained formal clothing, her face gaunt from starvation but her eyes burning with a ferocity that made even Esfera nervous.

“Who are you, Shem?” the woman asked, huddling to the back of her cell as Esfera approached. “You’re not one of the Arl’s guards.”

“No, I am not. I am Esfera Cousland. What has happened to you? Why has Howe imprisoned you?”

“Howe?” the woman blinked, getting to her feet. “This is Arl Urien’s estate.” She spat out the name as if it stuck unpleasantly to her mouth, her face twisting with pain. “I… it is hard to think, to remember… I have been in here for so long… did Urien never return from Ostagar?”

Quickly, Esfera grabbed a few bits of hard tack she had stored in her belt pocket and offered them to the prisoner. “Here. It is not much, but it may help you restore your strength.”

Slowly, the elven woman took them, watching Zevran for a nod before she began nibbling on the bread. “No, then. Not that it matters. One shemlen lord is as bad as the other.”

Esfera raised an eyebrow, but did not argue. “You were put in here by Arl Kendells?”

The woman’s gaze hardened, though she stared at the floor. “I was told I was awaiting him to return to decide my fate. Since I am a citizen of Denerim.”

Zevran leaned against the wall, taking her in. “A citizen, hmm? With all of the rights that comes with?”

The woman snorted, regarding him calmly. “All the rights an elf gets, anyway.”

“You were here before Howe became the Arl, then?” Esfera asked. “Do you know why? I did not know him well, but I know Arl Urien had an adult son, Vaughan. An unpleasant fellow, if I recall, but nonetheless, why would the Arling go to Howe when the Arl had a living heir?”

At the sound of Vaughan’s name, the woman’s face twisted into a wicked grimace, even as she wolfed down the rest of the hardtack.

“Vaughan is dead. I know because I killed him.”

Esfera exchanged glances with Wynne and Leliana, stunned by the sudden admission. “The blood, then…”

The elven woman drew herself to her full height, still well below Esfera’s, but with a confidence that Esfera had not seen in many city elves. “Vaughan stole me, my cousin, and my bridesmaids from my wedding day. He took my cousin, Shianni, as if it was his right. I had to do something.”

Slowly, Esfera nodded, pulling out the key that she had grabbed from the body of the lead jailor and sticking it into the lock, turning it open and swinging the door out.

“Go, hurry. In the treasure room just across from the top of the stairs there are some guard uniforms you may use to disguise yourself, so long as you are able to escape before word reaches the guard above about what we have done down here.”

The elven woman supported herself on the bars, her arms and legs still weak from hunger. “You’re just going to let me go? Unexpected, from a Shem.”

Esfera smiled encouragingly. “I would leave no one to suffer at Howe’s hands. Few know better than I what he is capable of.” She paused, feeling her gaze drift away into a long-distant memory. “And… I had a companion once, for only a short while. He had been a lifelong criminal, mostly thievery. When he asked me if I thought he deserved the gallows, I told him that wishing to live is no crime. I don’t see how you and he are any different. I owe you the mercy he never got.”

The woman raised an eyebrow, then stretched out a hand, flecked with dried blood and the fingernails almost completely worn away. “Thank you, sh--... Ser Cousland. My name is Lydia Tabris. I pray we meet again.”

“In a better time, I hope.”

Lydia looked down the hall, shrugging. “If you’re planning on shanking some nobles, I have expertise.”

Esfera winced, but behind her, Zevran quietly laughed. “Oh, I like this one.”

~~~~~~~~~

The moment Esfera saw the door to the final room, she knew Howe would be behind it. Suddenly, she wished Alistair were with her, foolish as it was. His presence always gave her strength. She had learned how to be strong against the darkspawn, from the smallest genlock to the fiercest ogre, and yet… she knew she would never be ready to face Rendon Howe. It hurt too much.

He knew she was coming, too. She was hardly through the door before she heard his harsh, deep voice echo through the room and into her bones.

“Well well, if it isn’t Bryce Cousland’s little spitfire, all grown up and still playing the man. I thought Loghain made it clear that your pathetic little family is gone and forgotten.”

She felt _such_ rage at him. _Had_ felt it for longer than she had even been hearing the Archdemon’s song, an anger that pulsed through her blood like liquid fire. She hated him. Really, truly hated him. More than she hated Bhelen Aeducan for his lies, more than she hated the demons who had trapped her in the Fade, more even than she hated the Archdemon, its song, and its twisted children. A burning hatred, scalding her from the inside out. Her father had always said that anger and hatred do as much harm to the one holding them as they do to the source of the ire. But she had never realized how physical the feeling was until just then.

Still, as she listened to his words and the anger rose, there was one spot on her body which remained cool: the hollow of her collarbones where her amulets sat underneath her armor, the chains twining together. It was the Reflection amulet, she could sense it, the mirrored surface pressed against her heart. 

She felt her eyes begin to sting again as she remembered the specter who had given it to her. The ache in her heart as the last image of her father asked her to move on before fading away.

_You know that I am gone, and all your prayers and wishes will not bring me back. No more must you grieve, my daughter. You must take the pain and guilt, acknowledge it, and let go. It is time._

And then her mother’s memory, scolding her during yet another lesson on courtly behavior:

_Stand straight, Esfera. Look him in the eye when you speak. You mustn’t let your emotions get the better of you, no matter how justified your anger. There is no better revenge against a man than being a woman entirely in control of the situation._

Slowly, Esfera took a deep breath, closing her eyes on the inhale, opening them on the exhale.

“The Bannorn knows of your treachery, Howe. I have witnesses, testimony, letters… lies cannot save you now. Just… be reasonable; turn yourself in and face proper justice. But first, I just need to know…” she tightened her grip on the pommel of her sword, knowing that the starmetal Cousland crest was there. “Why? Why betray us? My father was your friend! He trusted you, _loved_ you…”

“He was a traitor to me and a _coward_ to his nation!” Howe spat. “Trips to Orlais, gifts to old enemies, all while _I_ sank in obscurity! Your family squandered glory that was rightfully mine! How suitable that their deaths should raise me to the ear of a king.” He sneered, his eyes traveling from the toes of her boots up to the curls of her orange hair wiggling loose from her braid. “Your _parents_ died on their _knees_ , your brother’s corpse rots in Ostagar, and his brat was burned on a scrap heap along with his Antivan whore of a wife. And what’s left? A fool husk of a daughter likely to end her days under a rock in the Deep Roads. Even the Wardens are _gone._ You’re the last of nothing. This is pointless. You’ve _lost_.”

Esfera felt her jaw set, the cool surface of the Reflection soothing the burning in her heart. “That’s the only way you know how to fight, isn’t it, Howe? Shadows, lies, mind games, too cowardly to face my father yourself. It won’t work this time. If you wanted to kill me with such things, you should have tried a little bit harder in Highever. I will _never_ stop standing in your way, Howe.”

His sneer disappeared, his grimace turning cold, glittering with malice. “There it is, that damned look in the eye that marked every Cousland success that ever held me back. It would appear that you’ve made something of yourself after all! Your father would be proud.” His voice quieted, his hands almost imperceptibly twitching. “ _I,_ on the other hand, want you _dead_ more than ever.” 

Esfera knew the attack was coming long before it actually arrived, which is why she was able to have her shield up and in front of her face well in time to block the fireball aimed at her by one of the _two_ mages that Howe was keeping at his side.

She’d known he would not come quietly, but she’d also known that she must try. If only to convince herself that she was not doing this solely out of revenge. 

She’d wished for Alistair to be with her, but she could not have been happier to have the friends with her that she did. She didn’t have to tell them what she wanted-- they all knew.

Using the arrows they found in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Leliana began shooting down the first mage, interrupting his spellcasting several times while Zevran clung to the shadows, still unnoticed while the other mage attempted to fire spells at Esfera. Wynne swiftly took down the two guards with a few freezing spells and whacks of her staff, which left Esfera alone to take Howe down herself.

Esfera had never seen Rendon Howe fight, not really. He had mock-sparred with her father in the courtyard sometimes when he would visit, but he had always lost, laughing about her father’s superior swordsmanship skills. Even then Esfera had suspected that he wasn’t actually trying, but she had assumed it had something to do with his lesser status. Highever and Amaranthine had held tournaments, too, but Howe almost always sat them out, preferring to send champions, some of whom Esfera had defeated herself.

Now Esfera knew why. He was a backhanded fighter, using tricks of perception and distraction to make his opponent lose track of him in the heat of battle. A flurry of attacks from the shining axe to make you forget about the dagger in his other hand. Hardly the tactics of a fighter who prized nobility in combat.

After vanishing from her vision the first time, she felt a perverse delight as she saw his expression when his axe aimed at her back but was met instead with the unbending ironbark of her shield. She knew he was coming. She knew, because he fought a lot like Zevran _._ He fought like an _assassin_.

She hooked the axe with the point of her shield and kicked, her armored boots making contact with Howe’s chest for just a moment before she was forced to use the shield instead to block a blast of acid from the mouth of a giant spider that had appeared from seemingly nowhere. She realized quickly that it was the mage that Leliana had been targeting with her arrows, even as she heard the gurgling of blood in a throat behind her and saw the other mage fall to Zevran’s blood-soaked blade.

But then Howe was attacking again, and this time his axe managed to scrape at the edges of her armor, but Wade’s work was superior indeed. The axe hardly even scratched the stuff, and Howe’s face turned rapidly to a scowl as he jumped back, just out of reach of Starfang.

He was fast, and agile, and sneaky, but Esfera suddenly found that for all that he had done, he was not the opponent that she had thought he would be. But it was not because he had never been capable of those things. It was simply because she had not realized how skilled she had become.

 _Perhaps the Esfera that stands before you now could have destroyed all of Howe’s men, freed Highever from invasion, and saved my parents’ lives. But I would not be the Esfera I am now without that failure, without that regret._

How many nights had she spent in camp, or at Soldier’s Peak, sparring with her companions? Learning how to block Sten’s sword while keeping her ears open for Zevran’s movements, parrying his blade and dodging his dagger before he could draw blood? How often had she allowed Morrigan to batter her with spells until the cold did not bite, the fire did not burn, while still blocking Leliana’s arrows with her shield?

She felt her skin blister from the spider’s acid, but it was immediately followed by the cool, comforting sensation of her skin knitting back together. Wynne’s healing magic, aided by the Lifegiver.

At the same moment as Leliana’s final arrow plunged into the spider, forcing the shapeshifting magic to dissipate and the mage to return to his original form, Esfera heard Howe’s footsteps behind her, her arms reacting to the flash of his axe and the speed of his approach. Her shield blocked his axe. Her sword… her sword stopped his body.

Starfang ripped through Rendon Howe’s leather-and-silverite armor with a screech, the flame runes engraved on its surface roaring to life as the starmetal glowed, lighting up Howe’s shocked face as his eyes traveled up the length of the sword from the spot in his chest in which it was buried, all the way up to Esfera’s gloved hand on its hilt… and the glowing blue-green Cousland family crest embossed upon the pommel, the twin laurels shining defiantly.

She yanked the blade out, but even as his axe and dagger fell from his hands, Howe’s eyes never left the pommel of her sword, his face twisting with anger and hatred, even as his wounds stank of burned flesh, magical flames roaring through his armor as he fell to the floor, choking on his own blood.

“Maker spit on you!” he coughed, his fingers still reaching for his axe as his blood spread onto the stones of his awful dungeon, still laced with the red-orange of runefire. “I… deserved… more!”

He collapsed, and Esfera dropped her shield, feeling the tears come to her eyes freely, long past her ability to hold them back. Her fingers shaking, she reached into her armor and extracted her amulets, the pendant containing the blood of her Joining intermingling with the mirrored face of the Reflection.

“He’s dead,” she murmured, as she felt first Leliana’s, then Wynne’s hand on her shoulders. “I killed him.”

She looked down at the Reflection, seeing the barest glimmer of a familiar smile, her mother’s gray-orange hair, her father’s eyes. She gripped the amulet tighter, tears streaming down her face. “I’m sorry, Father. I couldn’t let go. I promised I would, but I couldn’t.”

She stood that way for a long time, the blood from Howe’s body spreading out around her dragonbone boots, the flame magic finally fading away so that the room became cold again.

“He gave you no choice,” Wynne soothed, placing a withered hand over Esfera’s grip on the Reflection.

“She is right,” Leliana urged. “Howe would have never let you move on, not so long as your life stood in the way of his ambition.”

Esfera took the handkerchief that Leliana was offering her and wiped her eyes, then tucked the amulets back under her armor. “Thank you, all of you. I think… no, I am certain, I could not have defeated him without you.”

From behind her, Zevran piped up, “I, ah, apologize for my silence. Not much for regret, you see.”

Esfera grabbed his arm and pulled him close to her, kissing his cheek right where his tattoos stretched down from his hairline, stunning him instantly. “Thank you, too, Zev. You may be useless at picking locks, but you are still a good teacher.”

She found herself laughing at his blush, even as she dug through Howe’s pockets to find the keys to the estate, including the cells further ahead and the lock keeping Queen Anora trapped.

Vengeance had imprisoned and tortured Esfera, kept her in constant suffering. But now that she had found Riordan and put an end to Howe’s ambition, it felt as if she had pulled out the splinter that had been infecting her wound, and finally, _finally,_ it would be able to heal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Esfera awoke in a dingy cell, grumbling from the cold of the stone on her bare skin. Se held her arms close to herself, peering through the bars of her cell, listening to the sounds of torture echoing around the large imprisonment chamber. 

She hadn’t seen any sign of Ser Cauthrien since she’d caught her trying to sneak Anora out of Howe’s mansion. Esfera had immediately known that nothing she said to the knight would have proven her innocent intentions, not when her armor still stank of Howe’s blood. And after what Howe had done to her family, there was no question that she had motive to sneak into his home and murder him. Not without betraying Anora’s presence to Ser Cauthrien and jeopardizing their alliance with the queen.

But she also hadn’t wanted Anora caught in the crossfire of a battle, should they struggle. She could secure no more support from the nobility with more bloodshed.

She had no intention of just sitting and waiting for Loghain to make up some more lies about her “crimes,” however. Now that Anora was out of the way, snuck out of the room by Zevran, Leliana, and Wynne before Ser Cauthrien could notice her, Esfera could confidently break her way out of this poor excuse for a prison.

Mostly she felt humiliated, actually. To be standing there in her smallclothes, her bare skin available for all her fellow prisoners to see, especially her neighbor, who leaned against the bars to talk to her, though he seemed thankfully fixated on her face.

“You look like you’ve been dragged through ten kinds of crap, friend. What’d you do?”

“I killed Rendon Howe,” Esfera replied matter-of-factly, focused on giving the bars of her cell an experimental tug, remembering the bloody hands and worn fingernails of Lydia Tabris. 

“Who calls that a crime?” her neighbor scoffed, leaning back against the stone walls of his cell and staring up at the ceiling blankly. “More like a public service. Still, they’ll hang you for it.”

Esfera sized up the guard patrolling their cell block and let go of the bars, glancing back at her fellow prisoner. “They won’t get the chance.” She stretched her arms, tying her loose, messy hair into a bun so that it wouldn’t get in her way. “No doubt my friends are hatching some harebrained scheme as we speak to come rescue me. But depending on who comes, it might involve a great deal of bloodshed, which I’d rather avoid. I do hope to get out of here without killing anyone. Denerim needs Fort Drakon’s soldiers for its defense, rather than wasting them on torture and execution.”

The other prisoner blinked, following Esfera’s gaze to the patrolling guard. “What do you plan on doing?” he murmured nervously.

Reaching into her stays to lift her breasts a little bit, Esfera smiled grimly, remembering something Morrigan had told her once:

“Men are always willing to believe two things about a woman: one, that she is weak, and two, that she finds him attractive.”

~~~~~~Leliana~~~~~

“Eamon, we have a problem.”

Anora had hurried back to the Arl of Redcliffe’s estate at more of a shuffle than a run, never having looked back at Esfera once as Ser Cauthrien took her into custody, every step filled with purpose, but measured by elegance. 

Her urgency had not surprised Leliana, but there was something untrustworthy about Anora that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Her strong, commanding attitude was irksome, certainly, and her lack of consideration for what Esfera had gone through to rescue her. But neither of those things were real indications of treachery.

Now they all screeched to a halt in Eamon’s office, his gaze searching their number for their missing member even before Anora had said anything. And before any of them could even begin to explain, Alistair was frowning, looking directly at Leliana. 

“Where is she? What happened?”

“The Warden has been captured!” Anora announced before Leliana could say anything.

“What?! How could this happen?!” Eamon exclaimed.

“Never mind that. Cauthrien will have her taken to Fort Drakon. Getting in will be no small feat.”

Eamon frowned, walking over to his bookshelves and searching for a volume. “Drakon allows visitors, but only to a certain point. Getting in will not be the difficulty, it will be getting to our dear Lady Cousland.”

“So we break her out; I don’t see what the problem is,” Oghren argued from the doorway, followed by a belch. Apparently Wynne had gone to fetch their other companions while Leliana and Zevran had accompanied the queen to Eamon’s office.

Leliana rolled her eyes. “Ferelden is in a _delicate_ state right now. This situation must be handled in the same way. If Howe’s guards were any indication, Denerim’s soldiers are… easily swayed by the right words.”

“So a small group, then,” Anora affirmed, nodding in Leliana’s direction. “No one too suspicious, so the golem is clearly out…”

Shale crossed their arms. “Suspicious, am I?”

The room broke out into a flurry of debate about who should go, who would be best, or if any of the Warden’s companions should go at all, before Leliana suddenly noticed that something was missing. She threw a small flashbang to the floor, silencing everyone immediately so that they all turned to look at her.

Leliana gestured to the door. “In all of your clever planning, did none of you notice that Alistair is gone?”

~~~~~~Alistair~~~~~~

“You know, you didn’t _have_ to come along,” Alistair argued as he held open the door to the visitor’s hall of Fort Drakon so that Cookie could pad his way in, his little stub of a tail wagging wildly.

Cookie barked quietly, and Alistair shrugged. “Alright, alright, I know I’m not the only one who cares about her. But how were you planning on bluffing your way past the guards, hm? You can’t even talk!”  
Cookie barked again, and Alistair scowled down at the dog. “Okay, no, _I_ didn’t have a plan either, I admit it. Happy?”

After wagging his tail for a bit longer, Cookie moved toward the soldiers guarding the door further in, plopping down on the ground in front of them. 

“Oi, look, a Mabari!” the guard on the left cried, reaching down to scratch Cookie under his chin before his fellow guard smacked his hand away.

“You’ll lose fingers doing that, you idiot. They’re war dogs, not pets.”

Cookie growled warningly and the guard backed up, prompting Alistair to run up. “Sooooo sorry. I’m, er, here to deliver this new Mabari to the kennels.”

The guards glanced him up and down, taking note of the shining Juggernaut armor he was wearing. “Really? I didn’t hear about any new dogs for the kennels…”

Cookie barked, his tongue lolling out of his mouth happily.

“Aw, we never know about new things coming in. He’s a healthy-looking dog, too. Captain’ll tan our hides if we turn away a perfectly good delivery. You just go over to the waiting room, then; we’ll go get the captain.”

Alistair walked over to the furnished room in a daze, looking down at the dog as he happily walked alongside him.

“I can’t believe that worked!” He paused, frowning at Cookie. “You’re… scary, you know. Not even the claws or the teeth, but you’re a master of manipulation.”

Cookie barked proudly, and Alistair just shook his head. “No one is going to believe me…”

~~

After convincing the Captain of the Fort to let the dog in by pretending to gag and thus need medical attention by the kennelmaster, then making the kennelmaster fall in love with him so much that he agreed that Cookie deserved some exercise, then play-biting one soldier in a pair so that the two got into an argument over the proper treatment of Mabari hounds… so heated that even the guard in front of the door leading out of the Main Hall had to run over to break up the fight… Alistair was almost convinced that Cookie was not actually a dog at all, but a demon that had possessed a dog’s body and was just very good at hiding his actual identity.

When they finally entered the small hallway between the Main Hall and the prison section of the Fort, Alistair couldn’t resist the urge to test his theory with some of his Templar abilities to see what would happen. He was almost surprised when nothing happened.

“Okay, so you really _are_ just a dog…” he muttered to himself. “Cookie the Warhound, master of manipulation. Not the Orlesian bard who lived her entire life training in deception! No, the real master is the dog.” He shook his head, rubbing the dog behind the ears while he contemplated the next door for them to move through. “From here on out everyone will know we’re out of place, so we’ll have to be careful. Be ready for a fight, alright?”

Cookie let out a small whimper, but faced the door eagerly. Then suddenly he stopped, his ears perking up. Before Alistair could stop him, the dog lurched forward, scratching at the door and barking.

“What’re you--?! Is there a big fight coming?!” Alistair drew his sword and shield, readying himself for when the door opened. Cookie ignored him, continuing to paw at the door.

The door came flying open and the moment it did, Cookie leapt into action, leaping up at the figure. Alistair was right behind him, ready to hopefully knock the Fort Drakon soldier unconscious with the pommel of his sword before they could get their bearings enough to figure out what was happening. 

“Woah!” The figure shouted, somehow managing to _catch_ the dog in their arms instead of crashing to the ground like people normally did under the warhound’s impressive size and weight. “Cookie?! How did you get here?!”

Alistair halted his sword mid-swing, still processing the voice behind the armor, the dog trying so vigorously to lick the face through the helmet that he was knocking it aside with his muzzle, such that it finally slid askew enough to reveal a pair of familiar laughing lips and cheeks splashed with freckles.

“Esfera, is that _you?!”_ Alistair asked, dropping his sword.

She looked up at him, gently setting the dog down, then ran to him, embracing him as tightly as both of their armor would allow. “ _Alistair…_ ” She started to kiss him, then paused and wiped her mouth of dog slobber, still laughing a little. “Oh you fool, you absolute-- What if you had been caught?!”

“Right, I did think that you might, er, try to escape, but Cookie just ran off! I tried so hard to stop him, but you know these Mabari…”

Cookie growled at him.

“Okay, okay! I lied. I came here without thinking. Well, not without thinking _at all_ . I thought that _maybe_ you might try to escape, and you’re _you_ so you’d be fine, but… then part of me wondered if you wouldn’t… I don’t know… just sit and accept your punishment. It sounds stupid, but I really wasn’t sure.”

Esfera laughed, kissing his cheek. “I understand.”

Stepping back, she stared down at him, her gaze growing distant. “I… wished that I had not left you behind, I admit. When Howe lay dead before me… and even earlier. And my imprisonment was not easy, either.”

Alistair blinked. “Wait… Arl Howe is dead?! Just what did I miss? And how _did_ you manage to get out?”

Esfera opened her mouth, but before any sound came out, the clanking of boots in the chamber just beyond interrupted them.

“I managed to convince a great many people of a great many things,” she said quickly, grabbing his hand. “But it won’t last long if they find us now. I’ll explain more later!” She tugged him back through the doors Alistair and Cookie had arrived through, the feeling of her hand in his wonderfully familiar and relieving. 

~~~~~~~Esfera~~~~~~~

Once they were out of Fort Drakon, they could finally relax. On the side streets of Denerim it seemed as if hardly anyone bothered to give them a passing glance. It was quite likely that everyday life in Denerim was exciting enough that the sight of a man in shining Tevinter armor helping a woman change out of a Fort Drakon uniform and into a set of dragonbone plate… was hardly noteworthy.

Except for when he was helping her change, Alistair didn’t let go of Esfera’s hand even once as they made their way back through the city toward Eamon’s estate, as if she would if he did. Not that she minded. It was comforting, after all she’d been through. A return to what was good and normal for just a little bit longer before the Landsmeet convened in only two days.

When they returned to Eamon’s office and Esfera explained all that had happened in the Arl of Denerim’s estate (since Anora hadn’t actually been present for most of it), she noticed Anora’s eyes flickering to Alistair’s hand in hers, though her expression was imperceptible. There was a slight pout to her face, but that seemed to be normal for her, rather than a reaction to anything.

Finally, when Anora retreated to her room and asked Esfera to come speak with her, Alistair let go of her hand, pressing a kiss to her still slobber-coated forehead. “I’ll leave you to it, love. I get the _feeling_ Anora doesn’t like me much.”

“Oh I don’t know. I think it’s a persona. Politics, you know?”

He nodded. “So what do you think? Of the Queen? Do you think she'll maybe be… y’know… _better_ …?”

Esfera frowned, looking out the door through which Anora had whisked herself. “I… she is certainly no fragile maiden. She has a strong mind and will.”

“And?”

Esfera shrugged. “Let me get back to you, alright?”

He huffed. “Don’t stay up too late, alright? We have to go to the Alienage tomorrow.”

She nodded, smiling encouragingly at him before making her way out of Eamon’s office and down the hall to Anora’s room, knocking on the door before entering although it was already open.

“Oh, do come in, Lady Cousland. You have seen me at my most humiliated; I hardly think there is any point to formality now.”

When Esfera entered, she found Anora sitting on a couch nursing a cup of tea, Erlina fussing about the room around her. She gestured for Esfera to sit across from her, her blue eyes wide as she smiled welcomingly.

“It is good that you came to speak with me, Warden. First, let me say that I knew your family. Eleanor in particular was dear to me. What Howe did was… unforgivable. How fitting that he died at your hands.” She cleared her throat and sat up, her gaze focused squarely on Esfera while Erlina ran over to retrieve the empty cup she set on the table. “But I saw well in Howe’s estate that you are a woman who thinks quickly, so I will be blunt. I can see that your voice will be a strong one, in the days to come. It is to you that Eamon listens, and with good reason. My father must be stopped, but once that is done Ferelden will need a ruler. I would welcome your support for my throne.”

Esfera felt her eyebrows raise, but listened patiently as Anora explained being the true power behind Cailan’s throne, answering Esfera’s question of what made her a better candidate than Alistair by saying that he was a good man and a good Grey Warden, but those traits would not make him a king. The bannorn would fall apart under his weak rule.

When finally she fell silent, awaiting Esfera’s decision, Erlina returned from the kitchen with two cups of tea, handing one to Esfera.

While Erlina bustled away again, Esfera thoughtfully stroked the side of the cup, staring down at her reflection in the murky liquid.

“I… find myself at a loss, my Queen. I met Cailan in Ostagar, heard his cheers for glory. I knew him to be a good man, one who offered my family justice when no one else had or even has since. But I see that what you say is true-- Cailan could not be the true ruler so long as you were behind him. You have a strong will, which I can respect, even admire.”

“It is humbling to hear that from you, Lady Cousland,” Anora replied with a shy smile.

“However,” Esfera began, looking up from her teacup, “I also see your ambition, which I hope you understand I have learned to approach with caution. It was ambition, not greed, which led Howe to slaughter my family and my people in Highever.”

“Are you insinuating that _I--_ ”

“-- _But_ , Queen Anora, I also made a promise to Alistair. I would not force him onto the throne or even continue to truly suggest it, until I met you and evaluated your character for myself. I could not stand against your claim for the throne simply because you are Loghain’s daughter.”

Anora’s smile had faded somewhat, remaining on her lips but not quite so bright. “And? What have you decided?”

“Nothing,” Esfera admitted, watching Anora’s face for the surprise and annoyed disappointment that inevitably ghosted across it. “My heart is soft for Alistair and it clouds my judgement. I would be a fool not to admit it. I do think he would be a good king, and stronger than you _think_ he would be. I also know that unlike you-- or even I, before Howe’s actions forced me to journey across Ferelden as a Grey Warden-- he has lived his whole life among the common people, spoken with them, toiled with them, fought for them. It is for that reason that I supported him as a potential king at all. The value that we place on the common people is what makes us Ferelden and not Orlesian, after all. But despite all his worthy qualities… he does not will it. I do not find you _deficient_ for the throne, Anora, I wish you to know this. You are right, you have been and continue to be a stronger queen than Cailan was king. But are you _better_ than Alistair? I do not yet know.”

She sipped her tea, grimacing at how overly sweet Erlina had made it. As she set the cup down on the table, however, she could sense the political charge to the atmosphere, recognized it from her talks with the nobles the previous day. 

Anora not only wanted but _needed_ Esfera’s support, and Esfera not only would but _could_ not give it easily. To do so would demonstrate weakness, malleability. To avoid this, Esfera looked at the queen directly and asked a single question:

“If you will be as strong a queen as you say, why did you need your father to rule as your regent at all?”

She saw Anora’s eyes widen the smallest fraction as she hid her emotions behind another sip of tea. She remembered talking to Leliana after their confrontation with Marjolaine about how politics, even including espionage and assassination, was a great game. She had meant Orlais at the time, but from what Esfera could see, it was still at play in Ferelden. Strategy, luck, and a neutral expression, with stakes even higher than playing Wicked Grace with Isabela.

Anora quickly gathered her composure. “I am not unaware of my weaknesses. I am an expert at court, diplomacy, and even etiquette. At military strategy, even, I am my father’s daughter. I do perhaps lack your… general stature, however. And for a country facing a Blight, the people needed to see physical strength. I had thought, at the time, it made sense to allow my father to remain as a general. I did not foresee him declaring himself regent and his status as the Hero of River Dane meant that few nobles thought to question it.”

Esfera pressed her lips into a thin line, thinking of the rebellion in the Bannorn, of the nobles she had spoken to who barely had anything left to govern now that Loghain had squashed their forces. Thinking of how small the Landsmeet would be since so many of its members had been killed at his hands.

“And if you become Queen, what happens to your father?”

She looked up at Anora, watching carefully to observe her reaction.

It was measured, but visible. “He is my father, as well as a great hero who has served his country well until now. If there is a way for him to live, I would prefer it.”

“Your father’s crimes extend far beyond myself or even the Grey Wardens, my Queen. Would you have me deny all of Ferelden whatever justice they seek for a man who allowed so many of its people to be slaughtered so that he can hold onto power?”

She waited for Anora to respond, but when she didn’t, Esfera tipped back the last of her tea and got to her feet. “I apologize, Your Highness, but the hour grows late and I have much to think on before I visit the Alienage tomorrow to see what Howe, with your father’s permission, was doing to our citizens. I bid you good night.”

Anora nodded, still staring into her tea, lips pressed so tightly they were white.

Even as she left the room, Esfera could feel Anora thinking, considering, plotting. She had spoken the truth, and nothing but the truth, but she could sense that her words had not pleased the widowed queen. Despite this, she didn’t sense any malice from the woman, not even the irritation she had expressed at Howe’s estate. Still, Esfera was unsure what to think of the woman. She had neither passed nor failed Esfera’s tests, and her biting intelligence and charisma were substantial. If she did become queen, those traits would be useful tools for Ferelden. If she didn’t… Esfera shuddered to think of what those traits could be used for if she became an enemy.

~~~~~~~~~~

Before gathering her companions to make their way to the elven Alienage the following day, Esfera found herself distracted by a conversation with Riordan, the Grey Warden she had rescued from Howe’ estate. At first it was pleasantries-- she wanted to see how he was doing, if he had healed well, if he needed anything. He waved most of these questions away quickly, though after accepting Esfera’s offer of access to some of the high-quality armor she had acquired in her travels, he told her of a cache of Grey Warden belongings hidden in a warehouse in Denerim’s market district.

Quickly, though, her questions deepened in severity as she asked him what the Call sounded like, if he knew. As she described her dreams, how different they were from Alistair’s, his expression grew more and more grave.

“It seems your impulsiveness at Soldier’s Peak may cost you deeply. I myself have only recently begun to hear it, as a senior Warden. It seems… as a Warden, Avernus’ experiment has made you into a candle that burns particularly bright… but for a dreadfully short time. I pray that this is not the case.”

“If I prayed, I would say the same,” Esfera admitted. “And another question… Riordan?”

He nodded, coming to a stop in front of the doors to the dining hall where her friends were gathering.

“All that I have done to save Ferelden, I have done without guidance. When I joined Duncan in Highever, I had expected to have an entire Order to show me the way. But I didn’t. I have made… choices. Interfered, stepped in, even when I knew that it may not be a Grey Warden’s place to do so. Is this… wrong of me?”

He frowned, looking toward the dining table, where Wynne was sampling a flask of ale that Oghren was offering her, Morrigan was refusing Leliana’s offer to go shopping for some nice clothes, and Alistair was turning bright red from something that Zevran was saying to him. “You face something that no Warden currently alive has faced, while not only isolated from your brothers and sisters but actively prevented from reaching them. You cannot be held accountable for doing what you felt you had to do.” He smiled encouragingly, placing a hand on her shoulder. “But I will help you as much as I am able. And the others, including your friends from the Deep Roads, are ready to make their way into Ferelden as soon as you eliminate the impediment to their arrival. Do not lose hope, sister.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Esfera looked around the small warehouse back room, tabulating the capacity of its storage in her mind, remembering the size of her forces back in Redcliffe, trying to decide what best to do with these excellent weapons and armor. It was relatively untouched, save a small trail of footprints through the accumulated dust leading up to a single weapon rack near the door. 

Moving closer to this, Esfera ran her hand over the single empty slot in the rack, pulling her hand away clean-- something had recently been hanging here, and had been taken. A sword, it looked like. But who would have taken only a single sword and left the rest, such as the beautiful silverite shield emblazoned with a shining griffon, leaning against the armor stand right next to it?

Leaving the missing sword behind, Esfera hefted the shield in her hands, lifting it to the light cast by the small blue flame in Morrigan’s hand. “Alistair, look at this,” she waved him over, looking at slight runes carved into the back, but also a small, small set of letters carved into the wooden backing, just above the place the handles attached to the material of the shield.

“Oh, this… this shield, it’s… it’s Duncan’s, isn’t it? That’s his crest…” He took it from her hands gingerly, his fingers tracing over the carvings. “We spent almost an hour looking for it while we were at Ostagar-- I didn’t realize it wasn’t with him…”

Esfera smiled, placing her hand over his. “I think you should keep it.”

He brightened. “Really? Thank you! This really means a lot to me, I can’t believe you remembered?”

Esfera shook her head, gesturing for them to make their way out of the vault. “Don’t be silly, Alistair. Of _course_ I remembered.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On their way to the Alienage through the Market District, Esfera heard a call that had come to be familiar from their many visits and days in Denerim:

“Dwarven crafts! _Fine_ Dwarven crafts, direct from Orzammar! You won’t find better!”

Upon hearing this voice, Esfera suddenly spun on her heel and went directly toward it, startling her companions until she came to a halt in front of the dwarven shopkeeper. “Excuse me, your name is Gorim, correct?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

Esfera peered at him, noting the way his clothes were tight to the muscles in his arms, well aware that the way she was looking at him probably made it look like she was checking him out. Which in a way she was, but not in the way he probably was thinking. 

“Every piece comes personally assured by my wife’s father, the best smith in Denerim,” he stated deliberately.

Hearing him say the word “wife,” Esfera winced. “You haven’t always been a surfacer, have you? You’re a dwarf from Orzammar. Second to the Princess, yes?”

Gorim’s eyes widened and he grabbed Esfera by the arm, pulling her behind his stand. “Look, Warden, I don’t need blackmail right now. However you know about that--”

Esfera shook her head, reaching into the pocket of her armor to pull out the second ring that Mirra had given her. The Aeducan signet ring.

“I apologize for my suspicious behavior. I only wanted to deliver a message from Mirra Aeducan.”

At that name, all of the strength seemed to go out of Gorim’s legs. He slumped back against the wall, staring dully down at the ring in Esfera’s palm as she held it out to him. “Mirra… she’s alive?” he asked, his voice so weak she could barely hear it.

“She is alive. She wanted me to give this to you and tell you that she will try to stay that way.”

“Oh.” He gingerly took the ring from her hand, his face wracked with pain as he clutched it to his chest. “ _Oh._ ” He squeezed his eyes shut, taking a shaky breath before returning strength to his expression and asking, “Did she say… anything else?”

Esfera nodded, knowing that Mirra’s message would only hurt him. But she had promised to say it, if she could.

“She said that she’s sorry. And she loves you.”

He cursed, slamming his fist into the wall behind him. “I just had to go and ruin it, didn’t I?” he asked, looking up at Mirra. “And here she is, apologizing to me!”

Esfera sighed, straightening. “What you do with that knowledge is up to you, Gorim. I have done my part. For what it’s worth… I am sorry, too.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now that Howe was dead and therefore there was no one paying the guards holding the gate to the Alienage, it was a relatively easy task to make their way inside, where they were greeted by the sound of coughing and the sight of sickly faces turned toward the gray sunlight.

Esfera took it all in, glad that despite the plague that seemed to genuinely be spreading through the Alienage, it lacked the concentrated squalor of Dust Town. It had much less of the stability of the rest of Denerim, the sturdy stone and wooden walls replaced by shaky planks, but it still looked organized.

Still, she was not blind to the looks of suspicion she received when she, Alistair, and Wynne walked into the Alienage, though Zevran seemed to only receive a passing glance. The elves seemed to shrink away from her shining armor and Alistair’s glittering shield in a way that neither the dwarves in Dust Town nor the Dalish in the Brecilian Forest had, even as she asked them if they knew about an elven woman named Lydia Tabris.

Eventually a young elven girl named Amethyne answered her question, pointing toward a wooden door not far from the bridge separating the Alienage from the Market District. “Lydia’s a Tabris; they have nice things. Cyrion takes care of me sometimes.”

Esfera smiled encouragingly, handing her a few silvers. “Thank you, child. Are you here by yourself?”

Amethyne frowned, then nodded. “Momma got a good job very far away, but she couldn’t take me along. She sent me a letter from Highever saying she’d come get me soon, but it’s been almost a year and she hasn’t.”

Her stomach tightening, Esfera asked, “Highever? Why was your mother in Highever?”

“Her lady mistress was staying there while everyone else was going to Ostagar. A lot of my friends here went to Ostagar too, to get jobs.”

Esfera squeezed her eyes shut, her heart stinging as she put the pieces together. “I’m… very sorry, Amethyne. You may need to ask one of your friends here to take you in.”

“Why?” the girl asked. “How do you know Momma?”

Alistair, too, was looking at Esfera quizzically.

“I met her in Highever. She… was killed, Amethyne. I’m sorry.”

Amethyne’s eyes widened for a moment, but then she was backing away slowly. “No… no, you’re just lying to me. Lydia said that shems lie to make us elves feel bad!”

She suddenly ran away, leaving Esfera with the silver coins still in her hand. She straightened up, sliding the coins back into her pocket and avoiding looking at Zevran’s raised eyebrow.

“I think it is more cruel to hide the truth from her than to allow her to hope for a return that will never come,” she announced. “Come on. I’d like to hear from at least one inside source of what’s going on here.”

When they pushed open the door to the house Amethyne had indicated, Esfera had to jump back to avoid a small spike trap that slid out of the doorframe.

“Nice reflexes, Shem,” a familiar voice retorted, a sword raised in front of herself as she came into view of the doorway. “Oh! It’s you! Sorry about the traps-- gotta keep those damn Vints away from me.”

“I must say, a splendidly designed trap,” Zevran commented before Esfera could say anything, running his finger over one of the spikes and looking in delight at the little droplet of blood that bloomed from the prick. “Merciless, I like it. But what would you have done if one of your fellow elves tried to come to the door instead?”

Lydia raised an eyebrow at him in amusement. “I wasn’t worried. It’s only the shems who never bother to knock.” She tapped her knuckles against the wall and the spikes receded. “Come on in, Ser Cousland and companions. I remember _you_ from the dungeons, but not the other two humans.”

“And I you,” Zevran replied with a wink. “How could one forget a strong-willed lass such as yourself? I must say, you have cleaned up quite nicely, not that you were not also immensely attractive while covered in blood. I am rather into that sort of thing.”

Esfera shot him a glare, but Lydia seemed amused rather than annoyed. “If you want, I haven’t had the chance to wash the bloodstained wedding dress yet. I could always put it back on.”

“Oooookay,” Alistair interrupted. “We’re here for important business. Uprisings, you know. Plagues, violence, that sort of thing. You said something about Vints, earlier. You don’t mean there are Tevinter soldiers _here_ , do you?”

Lydia tore her eyes from Zevran to regard Alistair carefully. “Worse, actually. They’re _mages_ .” She moved over to a wooden table and set of chairs, leaning back in one of them and resting her heels up on the table. “Anyway, I know I said ‘I pray we meet again’ when you saved me from the dungeons, but I didn’t think you’d actually hunt me down. I never actually asked what you were _doing_ in the dungeons, anyway. I hear Howe’s dead. Was that your doing?”

Slowly, Esfera nodded, and Lydia grinned. “Good. You may not be so bad for a shem after all.”

“Um, thank you… I think. Regarding your earlier question, Alistair and I are Grey Wardens. We are trying to settle the Ferelden throne so that the kingdom can face the Blight.”

Lydia’s feet slipped off the table with a thud. “Wait, _you’re_ the king’s bastard, eh?”

“Er, yes, I suppose that’s… accurate. How… did you know?”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “You really think humans bother to keep secrets to themselves when there are elven servants nearby? They’d be more careful around a Mabari. But we still hear, and we tell each other. Gotta stay up to date so we’re not surprised if the new king is down with elven genocide.” She crossed her fingers together in front of herself and peered at Alistair. “Are you?”

“Um, no, that seems… bad.” He leaned closer to Esfera and whispered, “do we… _have_ to talk to this lady? We’re not getting anywhere.”

“Can still hear you, big boy,” Lydia interrupted with annoyance. “What do you want to know?”

“I need as much evidence as possible that Loghain is no longer a servant of the people to use against him at the Landsmeet,” Esfera answered. “I suspect he has a hand in whatever is causing your people to rebel, perhaps even in the plague itself.”

“What? You don’t think elves just rebel for the _fun_ of it?!” Lydia asked sarcastically, pulling a knife out from her shirt and spinning it between her fingers. She snorted, sitting up. “What’s an Antivan elf doing with a bunch of shems, by the way?”

Zevran sighed dramatically, dropping into one of the chairs. “Oh, such a _long_ story. Adventure, intrigue, and beautiful women!”

“And a particularly heavy meteorite,” Alistair muttered.

“...I would be happy to tell you more about it if we were to have a moment alone,” Zevran continued as if Alistair had said nothing. “But suffice it to say, I owe this Grey Warden my life, and I consider her a great friend.”

Although Lydia smirked, Esfera couldn’t help but notice the simple golden band the elven woman was wearing on her finger. _Vaughan stole me, my cousin and my bridesmaids on my wedding day._

Scooting her chair back and sitting up, Lydia set the knife down on the table. “Alright. You say you want to help the Alienage, I’ll tell you everything I know. I’ve only been back for a few days now, though, so Shianni and Soris may have more to say.”

She started with Vaughan’s attack on her wedding, how Vaughan’s blatant disregard for the occasion had already planted the seeds of unrest in everyone’s minds even before her prospective husband, Nelaros, had been ruthlessly murdered when he and Soris attempted to rescue her. The elves had hoped that a new Arl may mean a less ruthless rule, but they were quickly disappointed when instead Howe brought plague and Tevinter mages. Mages who claimed to be casting spells to protect the elven citizens, yet almost never sent their wards, who were perfectly healthy, back out.

“Slavery, then,” Esfera finished for Lydia. “They are kidnapping and selling elves into slavery with this hospice as a thin veil.”

“That about sums it up,” Lydia shrugged. “Of course, I was imprisoned the whole time.”

Esfera got to her feet. “We cannot let this continue. Thank you, Ser Tabris. Is there anything I can do to repay you?”

“Sure there is,” Lydia answered, picking up her knife and moving over to a corner of the room where she then pulled up a floorboard, reaching beneath it to pull a shining red steel sword. “I’m coming, too.”

Recognizing the grey warden crest on the pommel, Esfera figured out where the missing sword from the vault had gone and fought the urge to smile, thinking, _Duncan would have been proud._ Instead she put a hand on Lydia’s shoulder. “Are you sure? You have only just begun to recover your strength after so long in prison.”

“Look, great as you all seem, I would never trust a shem to get justice for _my_ people. I gave myself up to the guard so that the humans would leave my cousins alone and it meant _nothing._ Elves aren’t allowed to have weapons, you know, let alone know how to use them. ‘Elves who have swords will die upon them,’ as they say. My mother taught me to fight despite all of that, but I was sitting helpless in a cell while my people were gathered up like cattle. I never want to be helpless again.”

Esfera closed her eyes, remembering what she’d said to Eamon when he’d stopped her from killing Howe the first time. _Forgive me for refusing to taste that bitterness again_.

“Alright. We should hurry, then. Lead the way, Ser Tabris.”

Lydia grinned widely, sliding the sword into her belt and tying her silky red hair into a ponytail. “Time for a crash course on Alienage life, shems.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

With Lydia in the lead, moving through the Alienage was a breeze. When they first encountered Shianni outside the hospice, shouting down the Tevinter mages, she bristled when she saw Esfera, Morrigan, and Alistair, but relaxed immediately when she saw Lydia. When she told them that Lydia’s father, Cyrion, and the Alienage’s Hahren, Valendrian, had both been taken, Esfera was about to run an attack on the hospice right there, but Lydia quickly stopped her, pointing down a back alley.

“Better idea. This way!”

She was right. In the back of the hospice was only a single elven guard, which Lydia quickly sized up, asked him about his family, then convinced him to step aside at the promise of a few sovereigns (which Esfera had to provide).

Inside, rather than hospital beds, what they found were a few soldiers guarding a large, empty room, aside from a small desk in the corner containing a letter demanding five more males and six more females for the next shipment. Slavery indeed.

When they went into the smaller back room and found elves in cages, Lydia let them out immediately, but looked disappointed as she watched the faces go by. She leaned over to pull a scabbard from the corpse of a guard she’d killed, sliding her sword into it then tying it around her waist. “My father isn’t here…”

She grit her teeth, pocketing the gold she’d found on the desk. “A warehouse, not far from here. There’s a route to it through the apartments. Come on.”

The Alienage was a maze to Esfera, even more so than the networks of caves she’d explored since leaving Ostagar. When she said as much, Lydia only snorted, ducking through a small doorway. “I hear the Alienage in Highever is worse, you know. That’s where you’re from, right? Lady Cousland?”

“I, ah… yes. Is it really?”

“What, you don’t _know?”_ Lydia scoffed, her head pressed against a door while she picked a lock. “You _lived_ there. You never once stepped foot into an Alienage before now?”

“Well… no. It was a far distance from the castle and I never had cause to go there.”

“Huh.” The lock clicked and Lydia straightened, sliding her tools back into the pocket of her trousers. “I wish I could say I was surprised.”

Their conversation was cut short by the guards on the other side of the door realizing that the people coming through the door were _not_ Tevinter soldiers and charging.

They quickly dispatched the guards inside, Esfera and Alistair pushing their way forward into the room while Lydia, Zevran, and Morrigan cut them down behind them. Once the Tevinters were all dead, Lydia dug through all of their pockets, unbuckling the leader’s armor and sliding it over her clothes.

“Hey, you want to help me get this on?” she asked, fiddling with the buckles.

“I… suppose. Is it uncomfortable?”

“Nah, I just want a little bit of protection from the sharp, pointy things.”

“Understandable,” Esfera answered, tightening the buckles while Lydia tossed a key between one hand and the other.

“Thanks. You ready to go save some elves?”

“I’ll make it a habit,” Esfera replied with a smile.

Lydia led the way outside into a back alley, holding her arm out to stop Esfera and the others when the guards turned to confront them.

“Who are you?!” one of them asked. “No one’s supposed to come back here!”

“I’m… so sorry, I got lost… I’m so hungry I got confused…”

The guard’s eyes narrowed. “Ask your human friends for some help, then. Go right back through that door.”

“I think my house is that way, though…” Lydia lied, pointing past the accumulating five or six guards. “Please, ser, I want to accommodate my guests.”

“Nobody’s allowed back here, miss. Turn around or I’ll have to stop you.”

“Um, well… can we talk about this?” Lydia asked, stabbing the man in the gut. “Whoops.”

Esfera rolled her eyes but raised her shield to protect Lydia’s face from the inevitable rain of arrows, swinging her sword in an arc to cut down the other charging soldiers. Once she and her companions cut down the rest of the guards, Esfera cleaned off Starfang and frowned at Lydia. “You’re a diplomat.”

She shrugged. “Diplomacy is what brought Vints into my Maker-forsaken Alienage in the first place. It’s easy to try to talk things out when you’re both on the top of the hill.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lydia was about to kill the elven woman who tried to stop them from invading the warehouse, too, but this time Esfera managed to stop her before there was more unnecessary bloodshed. She’d gotten pretty good at intimidating people out of fighting herself-- a far cry from her failure to convince the desperate refugees in Lothering not to attack-- raising her eyebrows at Lydia after the set of soldiers admitted that they recognized her strength. They’d “go get the guard,” but wouldn’t try to fight them.

“She scares them into submission, you know,” Alistair commented, gesturing for Lydia to go through the door before him. “They’d never believe she’s a big softy.”

“Look who’s talking,” Esfera replied, poking him in the ribs through a joint in his armor. When he giggled and squirmed away, Lydia raised an eyebrow at him. “Ah, so _that’s_ why you brought the bastard prince along?”

“I’d thought it was obvious,” Zevran replied, leaning against a wall while he waited for Lydia to disarm the traps protecting the door. “You should hear them at night, it’s--”

“--Zev, remember what I said about valuing your life?”

“--ah, yes.”

“And actually, I wanted us _both_ to learn more about Alienage life. If Alistair _does_ become king, would it not be best for him to actually know what life is like for your people?”

Alistair cleared his throat. “Not that _I_ agreed to this, mind you…”

“That reminds me,” Esfera asked as Lydia disarmed the final trap, swinging it into Zevran’s arms with a smirk. “You’ve lived here in Denerim, under Anora’s rule. What were things like?”

“I don’t know. About the same?” Lydia answered, nonchalant as she leaned against the door leading to the final warehouse floor, through which Esfera could hear movement of armored feet. “She didn’t come visit, if that’s what you’re asking. I hear she has an elven handmaiden she doesn’t treat like garbage. As glowing a review as any. But she didn’t improve things, either. Law of the land is elves are second-class citizens. If we’re citizens at all.”

“And what would you want me to do to change that?” Alistair asked, adjusting his grip on his new shield “If… for some reason, I decided to become king.”

Lydia gestured over her shoulder “For starters? Never _ever_ let rubbish like this so much as _look_ at an elf.”

Alistair grinned. “I think I can manage that much.”

“And what about the Dalish?” Esfera asked. “They have fought their entire lives for freedom, and they have it.”

Lydia grimaced. “Oh yes, spend my whole life rummaging in the dirt for roots and sleeping with deer-goat stink. I think I’ll take a nice furnished house, thank you.”

“You only say that because you’ve never _met_ a Dalish elf,” Esfera retorted, starting toward the door. “I thought much the same as you did, but I have come to the realization that ‘wild’ and ‘savage’ are not synonyms.”

“Oh whatever. I’m not debating with you on who gets to be a real elf, okay?” Lydia scoffed, pushing open the door and waiting for Esfera to go through ahead of her. “Let’s just focus on the task at hand.”

Immediately upon entering, the well-dressed mage in the center of the room waved a white handkerchief as if it was a flag. Esfera halted at the top of the stairs, but still took her time to take in the room’s contents. The dozen or so elves crammed into cages. The almost equal amount of soldiers flanking the mage. If it came to a fight, it might be a difficult one.

“You must be Caladrius,” she called down, her hands on the railing.

“And you, I assume, are the Grey Warden I’ve heard so much about,” he replied, tucking his handkerchief back into his pocket.

Esfera exchanged glances with her companions, noting Lydia’s white-knuckle grip on the hilt of her sword. “You’ve heard of me?”

“One can hardly get a word out of Regent Loghain aside from ‘Warden,’ these days,” Caladrius scoffed. “It’s surpassed even ‘gold’ in popularity.”

“Not in Tevinter, it seems,” Lydia growled, and Esfera placed a hand on her shoulder, hoping it would keep the elven rogue calm.

“So you were working for Loghain, then? Not Arl Howe?”

“Oh yes, Howe may have been present, but it is Loghain’s signature on our contract to come here and do business. I’ve heard you’re trying to erode his support… it must be a difficult task, like trying to wash away a _mountain._ Perhaps you could use some help?”

“Help? From _you_ ?” Lydia asked, her expression twisting. “Didn’t you claim that you were _helping_ my people instead of enslaving them?”

Caladrius’ expression wavered for a moment but he quickly got it under control. “Ah, I see you’ve brought the Tabris troublemaker. Lost quite a few sovereigns trying to catch her. And quite a few of my men’s lives.”

Esfera glanced at Lydia, who only shrugged.

One of the elves in the cages jumped to his feet, clutching at the bars. “Lydia?! Lydia is that you?! I thought you were dead! Executed!”

“Father! You’re alive! Where’s Valendrian?!”

“He was taken to the docks already. I don’t know if the ship has left yet. If you hurry you might be able to--”

He was cut off by one of the Tevinter soldiers punching him in the gut, forcing him to double over and gag. Caladrius apathetically watched this happen, then turned back to Esfera as if only slightly bothered by the interruption. “Well, Warden? Truth be told, there was always a limit to how long we’d be able to operate here. We’ve paid for many of Loghain’s troops, but once the Landsmeet is done we become… inconvenient.” He paused, waving away the unimportant explanation. “So here is my offer: one hundred sovereigns from you for a letter with the seal of the Teyrn of Gwaren upon it, implicating him in all of this.”

Esfera already felt her face twitch even before he continued. “Then we leave a few days earlier than planned, with our profits and remaining slaves, unharmed.”

Next to her, Morrigan shrugged. “‘Tis a reasonable enough _starting_ offer.”

Zevran didn’t feel the same. “I suggest you look these elves in the eyes before you agree to haul them off to slavery, my friend.” There was an uncharacteristic vitriol in his voice, even tinged slightly with threat. Esfera glanced at him curiously. He’d always said that he was Antivan first, with little actual affinity for being elven, yet… he _had_ experienced slavery as a Crow, essentially.

Before Esfera could answer, though, Alistair shuddered. “I feel _dirty._ We’re not actually considering this, are we?”

Placing a hand on Zevran’s back, feeling his taut shoulder muscles relax under her touch, she dropped her voice low, growling, “we’re _not_.”

Caladrius either didn’t hear it or pretended not to. “So? Do we have a deadwwl? Even you must admit it’s much better than resorting to barbarism, don’t you?”

“Your definition of barbarism and mine are entirely different,” Esfera shot back, crossing her arms in front of herself. “Mine, for example, includes slavery.”

Caladrius only rolled his eyes.

“I have a counter-offer,” Esfera stated, staring him down as coldly as she could manage.

“Interesting…” Caladrius replied with a slow smile.

Glancing at Lydia, Esfera let her fingers drift to Starfang’s hilt, feeling the runes come to life under her touch, drawing the Tevinter soldiers’ eyes. “I give you _no_ gold with which to fund your monstrous ‘business’, you take _no_ slaves, and you hand over that letter in exchange for your lives.”

“Well that’s not much of a _deal_ , is it?” Caladrius scoffed, but he seemed to retreat a bit under Esfera’s gaze.

“Neither is letting you get away with Ferelden lives without facing an ounce of justice,” Esfera replied, calmly beginning to walk toward the stairs. “You said you’ve heard of me, yes? Darkspawn have fallen to my blade, yes, but men also, from the strongest warriors to the most ruthless blood mages. With my sword, shield, and the blood of a Grey Warden, I have fought and won against a Dwarven Paragon and earned the allegiance of Orzammar. I have crushed demons underfoot, made armor from the bones of dragons I have slain, and defeated Loghain’s most elite mercenaries and assassins, even Arl Howe himself.” She came to a stop right in front of him, well aware of the dozens of pairs of eyes tracking her every step, their hands moments away from their weapons. “Yet despite _all of that,_ Caladrius, you should feel glad that it’s me doing the negotiating and not my friend here.”

This close, Esfera could see the sweat on Caladrius’ bald brow gather and drip as he glanced at Lydia, the wicked way she grinned at him, then turned quickly back to Esfera, whipping out a small envelope and holding it out to her. “Fine. Here.”

She took the envelope from him and tucked it under her breastplate. “Thank you.”

“Now, you’ll _really_ let us go? Return to Tevinter?”

Esfera tapped her finger on her pommel, looking around at the elves, Morrigan, Zevran, Alistair, and Lydia. “It’s not my place to decide justice for the victims of your crimes. Lydia? Should we let him go?”

On the other side of the room, Lydia drew her sword. “On second thought, I think we’ll just kill them.”

Caladrius’ eyes went wide, his staff flying into his hands as he cast a spell that sent Esfera crashing backwards, almost slamming into the wall had Alistair not hurried to catch her.

In a single moment, the tension shattered. Arrows were flying everywhere, swords flashing in the torchlight. Morrigan shouted and a massive ball of flame splattered a group of Tevinter soldiers, splashing onto the elves’ cages. They recoiled, screaming, but quickly recovered to cheer on the melee.

Lydia Tabris fought like a woman possessed. She moved seamlessly from one opponent to another, so cleanly that neither the soldiers nor Caladrius himself seemed to notice her dropping grease traps and foot-claws as she went, realizing too late when they slipped and fell to the ground, easy prey for Lydia and Zevran’s waiting blades.

Esfera didn’t allow herself to lose concentration on Caladrius for even a moment, smacking him with her shield any time he opened his mouth to caste a major spell. His proclivity for blood magic was most annoying, reaching with his hand and pulling the strength from Esfera’s core while his own wounds healed. 

Thankfully, Esfera was not alone. While one Tevinter soldier after another fell to Lydia, Morrigan, and Zevran, she and Alistair focused on the mage. She counted on him and his Templar abilities, even as she counteracted Caladrius’ spells with brute force.

She heard Morrigan shout behind her and looked up to the top of the stairs, where a Tevinter soldier had managed to make it past the rogues and overpower her, his hands charred from one of her spells, but nonetheless able to grab her wrists and pin them behind her back.

“Morrigan!” Esfera shouted, wincing as Caladrius took advantage of her moment of distraction to cast a powerful ice spell.

At the top of the stairs, Morrigan snapped her head backwards, her skull connecting with her captor’s with enough surprising force for him to let go of her hands. Before he could recover, she whipped the Spellweaver out of its sheath and sliced it through the soldier’s neck, the lightning spell she channeled through it entirely unnecessary as blood splattered across her face.

Alongside Esfera’s battle with Caladrius, as she managed to break free of the freezing spell, one bloody gurgle, then another seemed to flank her, like shadows were dancing in the edges of her vision. Realizing, suddenly, that he was the only Tevinter still standing, the mage dropped his staff, his hands in the air.

“Alright, alright, _please!_ I-I’ll offer you one more deal. I-I can use blood magic. The life force of these remaining elven slaves to--”

Whatever deal he was about to offer, he never got to, because Lydia stabbed him in the throat from behind, watching him fall forward at Esfera’s feet.

“He _really_ never got the point that elven lives was a bit of a dealbreaker, did he?” Lydia commented, blowing her bangs out of her face.

Esfera looked down at the bleeding corpse, raising an eyebrow as Lydia reached down and calmly yanked the ring of keys from Caladrius’ belt. “Feeling better?”

“I mean physically I could keel over any minute. But if you’re asking me if I feel at all guilty right now, the answer is ‘absolutely not.’ Did you hear that guy’s tone? Archon Hessarian had more remorse! If we let him go now, he would’ve just kidnapped slaves from somewhere else. Since taking him to the authorities is out of the question right now, we stopped him.”

“I suppose you have a point…”

Ring of keys in hand, Lydia moved over to the largest cage, unlocking the door and swinging it open. “Are you alright, Father? Did they hurt you too much?”

Shaking his head, Cyrion ushered the other elves out before him, all of whom looked at Lydia with a mix of gratitude, relief, suspicion, and fear as they passed by her. “No, I am fine, my daughter. What… has happened to you?! When I was taken into the quarantine you were still imprisoned in the Arl’s estate. And then you were here… with a Warden…”

“I’ll tell you later, Father. Right now, you should worry about guiding everyone out of here.”

Cyrion nodded to her, then looked at Esfera curiously. “Thank you, stranger. For my daughter’s sake and mine. I know the gratitude of an elf must mean little to you, but…”

“I’ve learned very quickly today that gratitude is much better than anger,” Esfera replied with an embarrassed smile.

As Cyrion hurried to the exit behind the others, Esfera turned to Lydia. “So what are you planning on doing now that the Tevinters are gone?”

“Well, I’ve still got to go rescue our Hahren and the others from the docks. After that, I don’t know. Unless things change quickly, I’m a wanted criminal.” She laughed. “Though it looks like I’m among friends on that point.”

“I can go with you.”

“Oh no no, I think you’ve helped enough. Not that I’m not grateful, but I can handle it from here. You’ve got some pressing matters to attend to, yeah? You just worry about getting your boyfriend’s arse on the throne.”

“I-- w-what?! No, I…”

Laughing again, Lydia pulled her borrowed sword out of its stolen sheath and held it out to Esfera. “I’m kidding, mostly. He seems like a bit of a doofus, but you seem trustworthy. Not too many shems I can say that for. But… I think I should give this back to you. It’s a Grey Warden sword, isn’t it? Soris told me he got it from a strange warehouse in the Market District.”

Shaking her head, Esfera placed her hand over Lydia’s on the hilt of the sword and gently pushed it back towards her, smiling. “Keep it. It’s the least we Grey Wardens owe you for all that you’ve done. And, I know I don’t have the authority to say so, but I think you’d make a _fine_ Grey Warden. Actually…” Esfera retrieved the piece of paper onto which Riordan had written the code to the cache and held it out to Lydia. “I’ve already taken what I need from the vault. Use the rest to arm your people. I… feel as if the Blight will not spare them, and you are the only teacher they may trust.” She patted Lydia’s arm. “And we Wardens need allies wherever we can get them.”

“Well, that explains the Antivan Crow.”

“That doesn’t even _begin_ to explain the Antivan Crow.”

Glancing over at Zevran, who was still examining the ruins of Lydia’s traps, Lydia pulled the sword back to herself. “Take care of yourself, Warden. You leave the Alienage to me. But don’t forget about us when the time comes, alright?” She stretched out her hand, waiting for a handshake.

“I promise,” Esfera replied, giving Lydia’s hand one firm shake. “I pray we meet again, Lydia Tabris.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

With Cookie on one side, Alistair on the other, Esfera looked up at the grand doors into the Royal Palace, inside of which the Landsmeet would be held.

Esfera reached out and hooked Alistair’s pinky in her own, smiling encouragingly. “I think you’ll do just fine.”

He grimaced, almost _shaking_ with nerves. “You know, you never actually told me who you decided to put on the throne. It’s not gonna be me, right? This was all just a ploy to force Loghain to face the Landsmeet. ...Right?”

Esfera hesitated, long enough that she knew Alistair could tell what she was thinking. “If… you did become king, what would you do?”

“Y’know… I’ve kind of started to come to peace with the idea. Especially after meeting Lydia. Maker’s Mercy that woman is _scary_ . But she’s right. There’s a _lot_ in Ferelden that needs changing. And… I think I could do a bit of good. Make good on all of the favors we’re calling during this Blight, for one. Give the Dalish some protection, the Circle more freedom. It won’t be easy, of course, and I’ll _probably_ have assassins sent after me, but hey… at least I have plenty of experience with that already, right?”

He smiled nervously up at Esfera, and she lifted his hand to her mouth, giving it one quick kiss as Leliana hurried up behind them, once again wearing the dress of a Chantry Sister.

“I’m sorry! I know I said I’d meet you here, but I had some… important business to do. Are we ready to go in?”

“I _reeeeally_ hope your ‘important business’ had something to do with prayer and not some last-minute bard-work,” Alistair chided. “You're an _ambassador_ now, Leliana.”

“Oh how could you _say_ such a thing, your Highness?!” Leliana replied in a mock-scandalized voice, batting her eyelashes as Esfera shook her head and pushed the door open. “I am only a Chantry sister. I would never do something so awful so close to such an important diplomatic meeting!”

“Now you’re just making fun of me.”

Esfera was about to laugh, but stopped when she saw Ser Cauthrien and her contingent of elite guards waiting for her in the vestibule.

Cookie moved in front of Esfera, his hackles raised. Cauthrien noticed, but remained resolute.

“Warden, I am not surprised it has come to this,” she announced resignedly. “And Alistair. If you were even remotely worthy of being called Maric’s son, you would already _be_ in the Landsmeet, wouldn’t you?”

“Well, a bunch of assassins, mercenaries, and the current situation tells me it’s not really about _worth_ , is it?” he shot back. “It’s easy to talk about worthiness when your definition conveniently keeps out anyone who _happens_ to oppose you.”

Cauthrien’s eyes looked like they were about to pop out of her sockets from rage. “The nobles of Ferelden _will_ confirm my lord as regent, and we can finally put this matter to rest. Once you are gone.”

Esfera took her hand off the hilt of her sword and patted Cookie’s muzzle, signalling him to stand down. “If that is so, then what are you so afraid of?”

“What?! I-I am not _afraid--!”_

“Yes, you are.” Esfera moved a step closer, opening her arms to Cauthrien. “And I don’t blame you. He is more than the Hero of River Dane, to you. He is _your_ hero. And he told you that _we_ are the threats to Ferelden. But _you_ are a worthy woman, Ser Cauthrien. What do your own eyes and ears tell you? Were you not there when the civil war erupted in the Bannorn, led by nobility who did not even yet know that some Ferelden Wardens survived Ostagar? Did you not once look around at the battlefield and wonder if the battle would have been more difficult to win had Howe not first killed the Couslands, my family?”

She took another step toward Cauthrien.

“Please. I want to make all of this _right._ I am a Cousland of Highever; I have the right to participate in the Landsmeet. We don’t have to be enemies. Have you never once thought about all of the Ferelden blood you have spilt and wondered if you truly serve Ferelden… or just Loghain?”

Cauthrien’s eyes flickered, the same fear Esfera remembered seeing in Morrigan's eyes when she’d learned how Flemeth had lived for centuries. In Leliana’s eyes when they had confronted Marjolaine. In Oghren’s eyes when he realized that his wife was beyond saving.

“I… I have had… so many doubts of late.” She stepped back from Esfera, looking down at her hands as the fear on her face grew. “Loghain is a great man, but his hatred of Orlais has driven him to madness. He has done _terrible_ things, I know it, but I owe him _everything_. I cannot betray him, do not ask me to!”

Esfera shook her head, reaching out a gloved hand. “I’m not. I am asking you to uphold the virtues that once made Loghain a great man. _You_ must be Ferelden’s hero if he no longer can be. How is that not loyalty? Help me _save_ Ferelden. It is my home, too, you know.”

Cauthrien’s lip quivered. “It is a bitter taste, to do the right thing, isn’t it?” She bowed her head, stepping out of the way. “ _Help_ him, Warden. Stop him from betraying everything he once loved. Please… show mercy. Without Loghain, there would be no Ferelden to defend.”

She gestured for her men to leave, giving Esfera one final long glance before she followed them out, leaving Esfera and her companions alone in the quiet vestibule.

“Do you _really_ plan on forgiving him?” Alistair asked. “After all he’s done? To the Wardens, to _Duncan--_ ”

“That’s up to the Landsmeet, I think,” Esfera replied, patting her thigh for Cookie to follow after her. “But after all I’ve seen and done… I think Loghain’s glowing reputation has shone so bright it has blinded Ferelden to its own potential.”

“What do you mean?” Leliana asked, stowing her daggers back into the hidden pocket in her dress.

“We have been helped by… so many people in our journey. Not only our close friends, but people we have met along the way. Niall in the Circle Tower. The mage Leilani on the path to Ostagar. Mirra Aeducan and Nerik Brosca. Brother Genitivi, Sandal and Bodahn, the Dryden family, the Redcliffe militia… we would never have made it this far without them. And even if we were not here to fight, they would no doubt have still done all that they did.” She turned her back to the door, facing her companions seriously. “It didn’t _have_ to be me. What if Duncan hadn’t come to Highever that night? If he had instead, say… watched a Casteless fight and win a Proving, or attended a wedding in the Alienage? Or decided that the Wardens didn’t need more warriors, they needed more mages?”

Alistair reached out to her, drawing back his hand when he remembered where they were. “This is _now_ , though. A Blight is a bit different from a revolution.”

“Is it, though? The people of South Reach, West Hills, Gwaren, Amaranthine… it was _Ferelden_ that fought for Ferelden’s freedom. All of it. Loghain’s intelligence, strategy, charisma… all of these things were useful, but I fully believe that if it hadn’t been him, it would have been someone else. Ferelden had plenty of strong arms and sharp blades. It had plenty of stubborn dogs and even more stubborn people. All it needed was guidance, and _that_ could have come from anywhere.”

“You don’t think he’s a hero?” Leliana asked, frowning as Esfera turned back to the doors.

“He is. But I think they have placed him on a pedestal so high that they forget that they themselves are already capable of standing. Ferelden already knows how to fight for themselves. They must remember it, before the Blight is over. One way or another.”

She pushed the door open, striding confidently into the grand hall, listening attentively to the shouting, to the whispers. Noting the Banns and Arls that scrambled out of her way, allowing her to approach Loghain unobstructed, but their voices following herself, Alistair, Leliana, and Cookie with every step they took forward.

And there, at the end of the hall, stood Loghain, his voice grating on Esfera’s every nerve. But to her surprise, she felt… calm. It was relieving to know that despite all that she had fought against, Ferelden wouldn’t have simply fallen to its knees without her. Some people may think that would make her feel less confident, but it was the opposite. Loghain had cracked because he _felt_ like he had to carry all of Ferelden on his back. But he didn’t. He never did. And neither did Esfera.

She had done and learned everything she could in preparation for this moment. She was as ready as she ever would be.

For much of her life, Esfera had thought of politics and etiquette as annoying, weak, confusing. Something her mother wanted her to do to keep her away from the brutish swordplay she preferred. But she had been wrong.

The Landsmeet was a battle fought with words and evidence. Block, attack. The Blight is the real threat here. Parry, feint. He not only allowed but benefitted from Howe’s many crimes, of which I have not only evidence, but victim testimony. Dodge, counter. Loghain attempted to have Arl Eamon killed even before he betrayed Cailan at Ostagar, by taking a blood mage from the custody of a Templar and torturing and imprisoning said Templar before he could reveal the crime. Elven slavery, Antivan assassins, and, of course, the convenient absence of the only other Teyrnir in Ferelden.

As the fight wore on, she could hear the Landsmeet behind her, Banns shouting their own evidence of her claims. The Grand Cleric denouncing Loghain for his interference in a Templar’s sacred duty. Like a fraying thread hooked on a nail, Loghain’s tapestry was coming undone.

To Loghain’s credit, his eyes did not hold the same fear Esfera had seen in so many of her opponents. It was there, but the sharp, biting fear of a wolf backed into a corner. He was ready to lash out.

“But enough of this! I demand to know what the Warden has done with my daughter!”

“The fact that you do not know is not an astounding testament to your ability to rule in her honor,” Esfera replied, her blood singing. “She is safe, despite your attempts to the contrary.”

“I believe I can speak for myself!”

The whole room whirled, bodies and eyes turning on the doorway, where Anora strode out, dressed in her finest gown, her golden hair glimmering in the torchlight.

_Yes, one last tug and the thread comes undone._

Anora made her way to the front of the room, her voice echoing through the chamber.

“Lords and ladies of Ferelden, hear me: This Warden has slandered and defamed Ferelden’s greatest hero in a bid to put an imposter on Maric’s throne.” Her eyes landed on Esfera’s shocked face, a slight smile to the curve of her lips.

The shouting in the room escalated, as much as the singing in Esfera’s blood.

_Traitor… ruthless… don’t trust, just kill, destroy…_

“I believed the best in you, Anora,” she replied, pushing the darkness down.

“And I, you, Lady Cousland,” Anora said in return, her gaze hardening. “I had hoped you would support the proper ruler. But I see now that the true threat to this nation is you.”

Esfera closed her eyes against the shouting, against Loghain’s challenges. She just wanted this to be over.

“Waking Sea stands with the Grey Wardens!”

Her eyes snapped open, meeting the gaze of the woman on the second level, almost smiling when she saw Alfstanna Eremon give her a small nod.

“South Reach stands with the Grey Wardens!”

“Western Hills!”

“Dragon’s Peak!”

Names, calling out. Hope rose in her blood, water rising in her eyes as she glanced at Alistair, her thoughts reaching him without any words. _All Ferelden needed was guidance, and it was capable of saving itself._

“We uphold our alliance to the Couslands of Highever!”

A few supported Loghain, still, but they were outnumbered. Gripping the Cousland coat of arms on her sword tightly, Esfera turned back to Loghain. “I knew Ferelden would do the right thing. You should do the same, Loghain. Howe feared Ferelden’s justice. Do you?”

She watched as he grit his teeth, his gauntlets screeching from the pressure they were under. “Traitors! Which of you stood against the Orlesian Emperor when his troops flattened your fields and _raped_ your wives?! And _you,_ Eamon, you fought with us once! Before you got too old and fat and content to even see what you risk. _None_ of you deserve to have a say in what happens here. None of you have spilled blood for this land the way I have! How _dare_ you judge me!”

“You’re wrong, Loghain,” Esfera heard, surprised to see Alistair move in front of her. When had he started standing so tall? “They’ve all fought for it, and continue to.” He glanced back at her. “There is no hero above justice.”

Loghain bristled, looking between Alistair and Esfera. “I should have known it would come to this. Ever since Maric handed that brat over to Eamon.” He glared at Alistair. “Well, it’ll be a duel, then. I shall let the Landsmeet decide the terms.”

Again, Bann Eremon spoke. Esfera was very much deciding that this woman was one she wanted to keep on her side. It would be according to tradition: melee combat until one party falls.

“”Well, would-be-prince? Will you fight me yourself? Or will you need a champion to fight for you?”

“Y’know, I was thinking it would be interesting to let Ser Cookie here choose who he wants to be king.”

“Alistair...” Eamon warned from the second level “...I hardly think it wise to let a hound decide the fate of Ferelden.”

“Now, that’s not true,” Esfera remarked, patting Cookie’s side. “I can think of nothing more Ferelden.”

Cookie barked approvingly, but Eamon only crossed his arms. “Now is not the time for jokes, Lady Cousland.

Esfera sighed. “Alright, then. Alistair needs no Champion. Loghain wants to protect his regency from Maric’s son? Then let him do so through combat.”

Alistair blinked at her, then nodded, dropping his voice as he stood at her side. “Promise me one thing… you will stay with me?”

“Always, my love,” Esfera replied quietly, giving his hand a squeeze before pushing him forward. “I never stopped believing that you would make a fine king.”

As Alistair stepped forward, facing his father’s former best friend, Esfera felt her vision turn crisp, her eyes and mind capturing every moment in excruciating detail. The hard set of Alistair’s shoulders under his armor as he slid his sword and shield from his back. The haggard circles under Loghain’s eyes, much darker and deeper than they had been when she had first met him at Ostagar. How they deepened when Loghain’s gaze fell onto Maric’s blade, clutched tightly in Alistair’s grip. 

They circled each other, sizing each other up. Loghain wasn’t like Howe-- he stood upright, his armor heavy but not cumbersome considering his strength. He did not hide and felt no need to. He was a man who believed in honor.

Alistair struck first, too slow, his sword ricocheting easily against Loghain’s shield.

_This man allowed elves to be caged and sold like livestock._

Loghain pushed back almost effortlessly, more sizing up Alistair’s power than actually attacking, his focus entirely on his opponent, disregarding the rest of the room. The clang of shield against armor grated against Esfera’s heartbeats, but she only clenched her teeth and reaffirmed her faith in Alistair. He was strong. He would not lose.

_This man knowingly gave power to the man who slaughtered my family._

Alistair stepped around, swinging for a joint in Loghain’s armor, missing, dodging a counterattack. 

_This man turned his back on the king, someone who he supposedly loved as a son._

They were speeding up now, the phase of the fight where they tested each other passing by. Clangs of metal against metal, blade against steel. Something softer-- Loghain’s blade had gotten through a joint in the Juggernaut armor, causing Alistair’s arm to bleed. His grip on his shield slackened, but not enough to stop him from hauling back on the shield and slamming it hard into Loghain’s chest, pushing the man backwards, stumbling just enough to allow an opening for a sword. Alistair plunged his into the opening between the breastplate and the helmet, blood slickening it as he removed it.

_This man not only betrayed the Grey Wardens and Duncan at Ostagar, but outlawed and hunted them down. Were it not for his efforts, Esfera and Alistair may not have been alone in gathering the army against the Blight._

Loghain’s eyes widened at the sight of his own blood, but it did not stop him. He knocked Alistair’s blade away with his own and straightened with a roar, slashing angrily outwards. But he was still bleeding. His wound was deep. Esfera could see blood still dripping out of the crevasses in his armor.

Alistair attempted to batter him with his shield again, but Loghain anticipated it this time, dodging out of the way and taking advantage of the opening in Alistair’s defenses to jab his blade upwards, attempting to stab him through the jaw. He narrowly missed as Alistair stepped back, instead only managing to knock the Juggernaut helmet flying into the air, landing with a clang at the foot of a nervous-looking Bann.

_This man closed the borders so tightly that no other countries knew of Ferelden’s plight, or could not send aid even if they did, so severely that it took a pair of starving, desperate dwarves traversing the Deep Roads to acquire any form of aid._

Paying no mind to the missing helmet, Alistair pressed forward, his movements loosening, relaxing. More the Alistair that Esfera had seen fight against the darkspawn countless times before. Shield, sword, gauntlet, greaves, a blur of metal as he overwhelmed his opponent with brute force, allowing few openings. More Esfera’s fighting style than what he had had when she’d first met him. But it was working.

_This man’s denial of the Blight fooled many Ferelden farmers and workers into staying in their homes while the Darkspawn swept across the land, because they believed he could not lead them astray. And every single one of them is now dead. If he had admitted the truth of the Blight, they may have fled and lived._

Loghain stood firm, but Alistair was stronger. Perhaps because of his youth, or his Grey Warden blood, or the experience he had gained in their journey to raise an army. Hard to say.

A jab into the soft leather protecting the joint in the armor below Loghain’s knee, forcing the regent’s leg to collapse underneath him. He fell to the ground, his own helmet falling askew with the impact, rolling away into the nervous crowd.

_Despite all of these things, I do not hate him._

Before Alistair could bring his sword back into swinging position, though, Loghain dropped his own blade onto the ground, his brow covered in sweat, his blood pooling into the cobblestone. “Perhaps there is some of Maric in you after all.”

Alistair lifted his sword, his mouth set into an uncharacteristically grim line. “Forget Maric; this is for Duncan.” But before he brought his sword forward in the arc of the killing blow, he glanced back at Esfera, his gaze questioning. Even now, he was asking for her blessing, her permission. He would not do it if she thought it was wrong.

It was only a moment, a moment in which each of the dozens of factors had to be weighed and considered fairly. The people who had begged Loghain to be spared. The suffering of all of the people of Ferelden. Loghain’s part in Ferelden’s independence. His paranoia allowing the Blight to spread as rapidly as it had.

Esfera listened for the Call, waiting for the singing in her blood to tell her to kill, hate, destroy, like it usually did. But at this, it was quiet. Perhaps the Archdemon did not care about Ferelden politics enough to bother with attempting to control it. Or perhaps it, for once, did not wish her to kill someone because their continued existence would only assist it.

Esfera gave one short, curt nod, and it was over before Anora could finish screaming “NO!”

The blood sprayed everywhere, Anora wincing from the meaty _thunk_ as the decapitated head fell to the ground. There was no politics in her expression now. Only grief when she looked at her father, hatred when she looked at Alistair, intensifying when she looked at Esfera.

Silently, Alistair pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his armor and cleaned the blood from Maric’s blade. For a long moment, the whole chamber was silent, everyone too in awe at the shocking loss of the Hero of River Dane to even begin processing their next objective.

It was Eamon who finally broke the silence.

“It is settled, then. Alistair will take up his father’s throne.”

Alistair, who only moments before had had the confidence and anger of a Blightwolf, suddenly backpedaled. “Wait, what?! No! When did that get decided? Nobody’s decided that! ...Have they?”

“He refuses the throne!” Anora shouted, her eyes narrowing at him jeerily. “Everyone here has heard him. I think it’s clear then, that he abdicates in favor of me.”

“I hardly think you’re the appropriate person to mediate this, Anora.” Eamon sighed, turning to Esfera. “Warden, will you help us?”

Esfera raised an eyebrow at him, silently asking the question, _you know I’m not exactly a neutral party either, right?_

But to her surprise, no one pointed out that obvious fact. No one questioned it, or at least no one wanted to.

Not outright, at least. With the silence broken, the tension in the room was beginning, once again, to build. Her hyperactive senses could pick up every whisper and murmur, see the iris color of every suspicious eye wandering back and forth between herself, Alistair, and Anora. Loghain’s body still bleeding out onto the floor.

_...inexperienced king…_

_...easily manipulated..._

_No Theirin blood…_

_...compromise?_

_....wasting a perfectly good diplomat…_

Esfera cleared her throat and the muttering ceased. The eyes no longer wandered, the questions hovering, unanswered, in the stale air. They were all fixed on her, including Alistair, who himself still seemed uncertain of what she would do.

“I know who I would choose,” Esfera stated, beginning to walk toward the throne, gazes trailing after her.

“Anora is a capable woman, but has already demonstrated that she is also capable of betrayal if it suits her interests. There can thus only be one option: Alistair must be king.”

Alistair’s eyes widened, and she could again hear the muttering, feel the tension increase as she turned to face the waiting crowd, the throne behind her.

“But _I_ will rule beside him.”

Alistair’s jaw dropped open. If Leliana hadn’t been next to him to smack it closed, Esfera thought it might have hit the floor. “Really? You _will?_ ” He paused, blinking feverishly. “This is the part where I wake up, usually. Or everyone points and laughs because I have no clothes on.”

Despite herself, Esfera chuckled. “I wouldn’t expect a man raised by dogs to understand etiquette. I can’t very well leave you to make a fool of yourself, can I?”

She straightened to her full height, the fire-runes in Starfang’s blade coming to life as she pulled it from its sheath, lifting the glowing Cousland coat of arms on its pommel for all to see. “I am Esfera Cousland, daughter of the true Teyrn of Highever. If anyone should find me unworthy of standing at the king’s side, say so now.”

Most shrank away from the blazing sword. None argued.

Satisfied, she returned Starfang to its sheath. “We will finish this together, my love.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alistair was already showing himself to be a better king even than he himself expected he would be. Imprisoning Anora instead of executing her or demanding fealty, giving a fumbling but honest and motivational speech to the waiting Bannorn… Esfera was quite proud, to be honest.

Though she had not done any of the fighting, Esfera felt exhausted as she, Cookie, and Leliana made their way back through Denerim’s streets to return to the estate. Though her own efforts had been political rather than physical, she felt just as tired as if she had cut through a whole horde of genlocks.

Alistair, meanwhile, had to stay behind to meet with the Banns and Arls of Ferelden, paying their respects, offering troops, et cetera.

Back at the estate, there was nothing to do but gather their friends together and inform them all of what had transpired while they waited for Alistair to return, picking at the sumptuous meal the estate’s staff had prepared.

When Alistair finally walked through the door, she stood up so quickly from her chair to greet him that it fell over backwards. Embarassed, she hurried to right it, though Alistair seemed not to have noticed.

“So… strange story-- tell me if you’ve heard this one-- this fellow gets made king and then gets engaged all on the same night.”

Esfera winced. “You’re… not angry about that, are you?”

Before he could say anything, Wynne, still sitting at the table, very pointedly cleared her throat. “I think it’s time for bed, don’t you all agree?”

“What?! But I’m still eatin’!” Oghren argued.

“You can bring your food to your room, Oghren,” Leliana jeered, lifting his plate from the table herself and swiftly crossing the room with it, glancing sideways at Esfera as she passed through the doorway, her pace quickening as Oghren hurried behind her, swearing up a storm and shouting threats.

Rapidly Alistair and Esfera were alone in the dining room, even the servants leaving the dishes unattended out of a desire not to interrupt.

Alistair walked over to one of the vacated chairs, slumping into it. “I’m actually _fine_ with being king. I’ve had some time to come to terms with that. I suppose there’s some good I could even do.”

At this, Esfera couldn’t help but smile, returning to her spot at the table and spinning her chair so that it faced him. “But?”

“I’m more curious about… you know, the engagement. I like the idea, but… are you sure?”

Esfera’s smile faltered, her memory traveling back to the tension hovering in the air in the Landsmeet chamber. “Am I sure I want to marry you? Of course. I think I have been for some time. Maybe that’s why I wanted to give you this ring so badly,” she chuckled, holding up the hand that the Lifegiver was safely nestled onto. “But standing there, facing you and the Bannorn and Anora… I knew I had to do something quickly, or the Landsmeet would suggest a diplomatic solution. Why not make two bids for the throne into one? One with royal blood, the other with training and experience. One honest, one duplicitous. Even you must admit, the potential of a political alliance with Anora would have been a force to reckon with.”

Alistair pulled back. “Wh-- what are you saying?”

“They would have suggested you marry Anora, Alistair. For the good of Ferelden. Perhaps even what’s best for Ferelden. But I didn’t give them that choice.” She smiled up at him again, this time more prideful than hopeful. “I love you, Alistair. I would give up almost everything for the sake of this kingdom. But not you. I am _most_ selfish when it comes to you.”

Esfera slipped the Lifegiver off of the middle finger of her right hand and took Alistair’s left, pausing before she slipped it on. “I apologize for not… asking you beforehand. I somewhat… forced my own will upon you under the pressure, and I never gave you a chance to choose it yourself. You could reject it, if you like. I’ll shoulder all of the humiliation gracefully, so that none falls to you.”

Alistair blinked, pulling the Lifegiver from her fingers himself and sliding it on. “Oh no, I like that this saves me the trouble of proposing.”

Esfera laughed, leaning closer. “Well, Alistair, no Banns and Arls to convince, just you and me… will you marry me?”

He leaned forward to kiss her. “Of course, my dear.”

But when they pulled apart, he was frowning. “They’ll expect an heir, you know. With the Taint in our blood…”

Esfera put a finger to his lips. “I know. We will deal with it as it comes.”

Slowly, he nodded. “Right. Blight first, then kids.”

~~~~~

The smoke rising from Redcliffe village was an instant wake-up call from the slight bit of relaxation Esfera had allowed herself to feel once the civil war had been put to rest. 

On their last visit, there had been smoke, too, but it had been the lazy light-gray columns of the multitude of cooking fires from the war camp, not the black cloud that greeted them now as they crested the hills from the Hinterlands. Until that moment, their journey back to Redcliffe from Denerim had been almost pleasant, full of laughter and light with relief. When they saw the village burning, however, all of the jokes died in their throats and their pace quickened from walk to jog to a full-on sprint in a matter of moments.

Not one of them wanted to have fought to save the town once only to see it fall now.

As they drew close, they could hear not only the gutteral grunts and roars of the darkspawn, but the sounds of combat. Shouting, bowstrings twanging followed by the zing of arrows through the air, the crackling of lightning magic.

Esfera plunged into the attacking forces, her shield knocking down every measly hurlock in her way. She and her companions carved their way down the hill and into the village’s main square, focused entirely on reaching the survivors.

Too focused, even-- as she passed the last building obstructing her view of the square, a massive hand swiped her up, too quickly for her to dodge and too large to even attempt to block with her shield. The ogre had been just around the corner, almost as if waiting for her.

It was crushing her, her dragonbone armor creaking under the strain of the creature’s grip, the joints digging painfully into her skin, but thankfully the armor was holding its shape.

She winced away from the ogre’s awful stinking breath as it roared at her, trying to wiggled or pull her arms free.

She heard a shout and then she was being dropped-- no, the arm itself had fallen, the beast still alive. She rolled with the impact and looked up at Oghren and the massive axe in his hand, still black with darkspawn blood. They nodded to each other.

She winced from the remaining pain, only to feel a wave of comfort wash over her. The Lifegiver? No… she had given that to Alistair. And Wynne she had sent ahead with the Arl to help the villagers who had fled to the castle.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and followed it to its source, a young man with angular eyes and long, shining silver hair, wearing flowing, if torn, mage robes.

“Are you alright, Warden?”

Esfera got to her feet, nodding. “I am, yes! Focus on the battle!”

He nodded, erecting a magical barrier around the both of them just in time to absorb the impact of a fireball spell. He dropped it and Esfera immediately charged out, jumping off of the ribcage of a fallen hurlock to drive her sword into the neck of the now one-armed ogre, black blood spurting out and through the slits in her helmet. She spat. It did not worry her.

As it fell, the scene before her became more clear. She saw Leilani, the elven Circle mage, whipping her staff around in huge arcs to launch spells with a ferocity greater than she had ever seen in anyone save Morrigan, possibly even eclipsing her. She could see a Dalish archer in brown and green leather armor shooting arrows at incredible speeds as he rushed across Redcliffe’s rooftops, shouting commands to the other archers at the edges of the square.

With their collective effort, the last of the darkspawn in Redcliffe quickly fell to a rain of blades, arrows, and spells, allowing Esfera to finally ask this motley collection of heroes what had happened to the town, where everyone was, were they safe…”

“That Warden, Riordan, came in a hurry from the south with urgent news,” the Dalish archer from before announced, hopping down from the rooftops. “Didn’t stop to say anything to the camp, but thankfully our scouts saw the arm of the horde coming toward Redcliffe fast enough to get everyone out. They’re taking shelter in the castle, now.”

“It’ll be a tight fit, since people from smaller villages were already taking shelter in _Redcliffe_ ,” Leilani scoffed, leaning on her staff. She looked paler than Esfera remembered, her bright lavender facial tattoo not standing out quite so starkly against her dark skin and hair. “The war camp’s trashed, too.”

“Did they breach the castle?!” Alistair asked, still out of breath from the fight.

“I don’t know, probably?” Leilani replied. “Those of us here just happened to be getting supplies when the beasts came. The rest of the war camp is up protecting the castle. We decided it would be best if _someone_ protected the village.”

Esfera nodded. “I thank you all.”

Leilani jerked her head toward the young mage from earlier. “If you’re in need of healing, Raiden can help you. Otherwise, I’d hurry to protect your people, Warden.”

“I’ll come with you,” the Dalish elf piped up. “We’re mostly done here, and I very much expect lady Surana is capable of cleaning up any stragglers.”

“Without delay, Ser…”

“Mahariel,” the man replied, lifting his bow in curt greeting. “Azrien Mahariel.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The battle raged all up the hill to the castle, the shouting mostly coming from tired dwarves who seemed to be fighting as much with expletives as they were with weapons. The flashes of magic, too, followed Esfera and her companions as they hurried up the path toward the castle’s gates, ominously wide open.

Sure enough, the courtyard was flooded by darkspawn. Merely grunts, mostly, who fell instantly under Starfang’s blade, but easily enough to overwhelm the few guards stationed before the wooden doors to the keep. 

Esfera turned to say something quickly to Mahariel, but noticed that he was gone, replaced instead by Zevran, who was apparently happily dispatching the grunts, his mouth firmly shut against the spray of ichor as his blades spun in deadly arcs.

She hurried up the stairs to smash down the hurlock alpha threatening to collapse the Redcliffe soldiers, trusting Cookie and Alistair to take down the two emissaries in the courtyard below. She worried that many of the remaining soldiers had sustained injuries, just before she saw a cascade of blue light and their bleeding stopped. She glanced up to see Wynne standing in a window, her face tight in concentration.

Confident now that the Redcliffe soldiers were not at risk, she Esfera turned back to the combat, her muscles tired enough from the journey to the village, let alone the battle now. 

Then, from the gate:

“Ready! And… VOLLEY!”

Dozens of bowstrings twanged at once, their targets falling in a wave as their arrows plunged with deadly accuracy into throats, eye sockets, chinks in the haphazard darkspawn armor.

The last one fell to reveal Azrien Mahariel, still pointing up at the darkspawn line with grim determination, a dozen Dalish archers behind him. When all was still, he nodded at Esfera.

She returned it, grateful to Lanaya for being true to her word, gathering Dalish from all across Ferelden and even beyond. Wherever Azrien had come from, he clearly held a lot of respect. But there was a hunch to his posture, despite his skill. Nerves, worry, something. Nonetheless, his quick thinking had saved some precious time.

“OGRE!” Esfera shouted just before the edge of its monstrous shadow had reached Azrien.

He reacted instantly to her shout, jumping out of the way just in time to dodge its mighty fists. This was a large one, even as ogres go, its mouth open and dripping Blighted saliva into the courtyard’s dirt.

“Archers, back!” Azrien commanded, nodding again to Esfera. “Let the Wardens work!”

The Dalish didn’t need to be told twice. As Esfera and Alistair charged forward without a word of confirmation, the elves scattered, raining arrows at every opportunity.

When finally the ogre lay dead, the doors to the keep flew open and Wynne and Leliana ran out, rushing to Esfera’s side. Leliana pulled her into a hug, both mage and bard quickly explaining what had happened from the point of view of the castle.

Outside, the sounds of combat quickly died, and a dwarven captain with a mud smear across his face confirmed that they had dispatched the last attacker on the camp and were burning the corpses. 

The moment that was done, Esfera gave Mahariel her thanks, promising to see to the Dalish forces herself once she discussed the news with Riordan. And with that, the only way to go, as always, was forward.

~~~~~~~

Emotions swirled chaotically in her chest as Esfera made her way back to her room after her and Alistair’s conversation with Eamon and Teagan, then Riordan in his room. The Archdemon had shown itself and was already making its way toward Denerim, a trek all the way across the kingdom. They would never make it in time. 

But worse news. When they had asked how one even goes about killing an Archdemon and Riordan had blanched, Esfera had doubtfully hoped that it had been about something simple, such as the Archdemon behind larger than the typical dragon and thus harder to take down. It was a small hope, but she had nursed it anyway. At least until the moment Riordan told her that the only way for an Archdemon to die was for a Grey Warden to die with it.

“In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice,” Esfera muttered to herself, squeezing her eyes shut against the dark cloud threatening to engulf her. Sacrifice was not only the moral code of the Grey Wardens. It was the very reason they existed.

Riordan had promised that, as the oldest of the three Wardens now in Ferelden, he would try to be the one to make the final blow. But if he failed… if he failed…

_Either Alistair or I will have to die._

Neither one was acceptable. If she had known the consequences of slaying the Archdemon earlier, she may have been able to search for some other way along her journey, but by now it was too late. If there was some other way to kill the Archdemon and not die, she had no time to find it. 

If she was ever asked whether she would sacrifice her life for her country the answer would always be yes, until now, when she was actually faced with the question. If her life was what it took, yes, but… what of Alistair?

He would be destroyed without her. She loved him and believed in his ability to rule, but she knew that Wynne was right-- he had a fragile heart. She had never intended on breaking it. She had never believed she wouldn’t have a choice.

And then there was the option of letting Alistair do it, and that was also just completely incomprehensible. For so many reasons. Her heart would never be the same without him. And… the world would be so much _less_ if it lost such a good man. And... let the future king of Ferelden die only days after he had accepted the crown? Unthinkable. She could not allow it to happen.

All her hopes rested on Riordan, then. Flimsy, paper-thin hopes. Not that she did not think he was capable, or that she did not trust him to do his utmost, but what was _one man_ , even _one Grey Warden_ against an entire Darkspawn horde led by an Archdemon? It had taken a team of four at least to take down the dragon Andraste and then Flemeth’s dragon form. She could not imagine the Archdemon would be any easier a foe.

Though the distance between Riordan’s room and hers was not actually that far, it felt as if it took a thousand steps to reach it, each one heavier than the last. Though she knew she should rest, since it would be the last she would get until the Archdemon lay dead, she also knew that sleep would not find her.

She started when she saw a shadow in front of the fire, only relaxing when she turned and saw it was Morrigan, her yellow eyes flickering with its glow. Esfera put a hand to her heart, breathing deeply. “Maker’s mercy, don’t you have your own room?”

“I decided it was time that we spoke,” Morrigan said, turning to face her, ignoring Esfera’s comment. “I have a plan, you see. A way out. A… loop in your hole.” 

Esfera frowned, sliding the door shut behind her. “What do you mean?”

“I know what happens when the Archdemon dies. I know a Grey Warden must be sacrificed, and that sacrifice could be you. I have come to tell you this does not need to be.”

Her heart sang, but she stamped it down. She could not let her logic lose to her emotion on the eve of battle. “So you knew this whole time and did not tell me?”

Morrigan shrugged. “I did not know if you would be reasonable. Tell me, if I had told you when you awoke in my mother’s hut after the failure at Ostagar that to be a heroic Grey Warden _demands_ sacrifice, would you have believed me? Or worse, could you be absolutely certain that you would have dedicated yourself to the cause, knowing that you would die?”

Esfera leaned back against the door. “I… suppose not.”

“I am proposing a way _out_ of that sacrifice. For _all_ Grey Wardens.” Morrigan’s eyes glimmered, the fire in them indistinguishable from the reflection of the firelight. “A ritual, performed on the eve of battle… in the dark of night.

“This… sounds like blood magic.”

“The Circle may call it that, yes. But that is but a name. There is far more to fear in this world than names. This ritual, I assure you, has nothing to do with controlling minds or bleeding strength from an enemy. It is simply old magic, lost to the world if the Circles had their way. Much like the way of the Arcane Warrior you were so determined that I learn, yes?”

Slowly, Esfera nodded. “Tell me, then.”

Businesslike, Morrigan moved over to the bed, arranging her robes around her as she sat down. “What I propose is this: convince Alistair to lay with me. Here, tonight. And from this ritual a child shall be conceived within me.”

Esfera felt her heart sink into her stomach. Her mind spiraled, darkness creeping into the edges, and as it did, she could hear the Call.

Seeing Esfera’s shock, Morrigan spoke even more quickly, grabbing Esfera’s hands to ground her. “This child will bear the Taint, and when the Archdemon is slain, its essence will seek the child like a beacon. At this early stage, the child can absorb that essence and not perish. The Archdemon is still destroyed, with no Grey Warden dying in the process.”

She fell down onto the bed next to Morrigan, her legs too unsteady to hold her weight, though Morrigan did not release her grip on Esfera’s hands. As Esfera’s mind whirled, bile rising in her throat, Morrigan’s expression only made her feel sicker. Not because it was cruel, but because it was genuinely kind. This may have been the reason Flemeth sent her along with Alistair and Esfera that fateful day, but being here in Esfera’s room at that moment and telling her this… this was Morrigan’s choice alone. Because she cared. Because she wanted to help.

Morrigan assured her that the child would not be a darkspawn, that what she sought was the soul of the Old God, _before_ its essence had been corrupted. An old power worth preserving. Something Esfera clearly believed in. 

But Alistair… even if he agreed, the thought of what Morrigan was asking of her was…

Esfera knew that allowing Alistair to marry Anora was what was best for Ferelden, and she had interceded. Not only because she could not trust Anora, but because she could not stand the idea of Alistair in another person’s arms, however forced the relationship might be. Even after she had proposed marriage to him herself, she feared the possibility that Eamon may push him to infidelity like he had pushed Cailan, out of hope for an heir. Even for the good of Ferelden, Esfera could not stomach the thought. Not then, and certainly not now.

“But you _hate_ Alistair,” Esfera attempted weakly.

“I am not offering this out of any affection for _Alistair,_ fool girl,” Morrigan replied with a roll of her eyes. “I care for you and value your life. Must you force me to say more? If _you_ care for him, you must convince him to do this.”

The child would not be harmed, Morrigan explained. She would disappear with it, never to be seen again, raise it to appreciate its ancient power. And that is how she wanted it.

Esfera sat very still for a long time, staring at Morrigan’s long, thin fingers laid across her thick, scarred ones on her lap.

“It is not much of a choice is it?” Esfera murmured, squeezing her eyes shut. “I allow my betrothed to lay with another woman, or I allow him to die. Or I die and he eventually lays with another woman anyway.”

She breathed shakily, nodding. “I understand. I… will try to convince him.”

Morrigan brightened, helping her to her feet. “A most wise choice. You--”

“--But promise me one thing, Morrigan.”

“Yes?”

“You can tease Alistair for anything, even in the coming days as we hurry to Denerim. Heaven knows I’ve never been able to stop you before. But not this. You _cannot_ hold this over his head. For any reason, political or personal. It will be hard enough being king. Whatever the consequences of this choice be, let them be mine. Not his.”

Morrigan frowned, but nodded. “Very well.”

~~~~~~~~~

“Are you sure?” Alistair asked, his wide, brown, dog-like eyes staring up at her, as if searching for explanations she would not give. “You know what you’re asking of me, don’t you?”

Esfera swallowed, then nodded. “On better circumstances, I would give it more thought before I said I was certain, but I don’t have that luxury.” She pressed her fingers to his cheek, stroking the stubble on his jaw with her thumb. “I can’t lose you, and you can’t lose me. If I must let you go for one night in order to keep you for the rest of my life, then it shall be. I won’t force you. This is your choice, too.”

He sighed heavily, puffing out his cheeks as he leaned against the wall. “It’s not much of a choice, is it? Alright.”

He got to his feet, glumly starting down at his feet. “Let’s go… talk to Morrigan. Get this over with.”

~~~~~~

Even as Esfera shut the door to Morrigan’s chamber behind herself, the sick feeling in her stomach, rising into her throat, her eyes, her mind only grew, threatening to debilitate her. She should rest, but her room was too nearby. The idea of sleeping soundly while they… while he… she could not bear it. She wanted to be away from it. If she so much as saw the light from the fireplace peeking out from under the door, she would be reminded of why it was lit. If she stayed near, she could hear the sounds. And if she could not actually hear them, she fully believed her mind would craft the sounds for her.

Her stomach tightening into shipworthy knots, she ran.

Down the hallways, past confused-looking servants, as far away from her own room as she could get, the still air of the castle threatening to suffocate her.

Finally, she pushed out through the courtyard gates, the cold night air shocking her lungs enough to force a breath out of her, releasing a gasp she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Looking around, she saw that this late at night, the courtyard was empty of all but the Redcliffe guards, those few militiamen who would be staying behind while the army proper marched to Denerim, so they could afford to remain without rest while the soldiers recuperated theirs. The hustle and bustle of the army camp’s training grounds was gone for now.

Still able to see the flickering lights in the castle’s high windows, she pressed further, down into the camp, though now at a walk. She was their commander now. If they saw fear or despair on her face then they too would despair. 

To her surprise, much of the camp was still awake, telling tales around a massive, stinking bonfire upon which she could see the burning corpses of the day’s darkspawn, including the massive ogre she had slain in the castle courtyard.

In the firelight, she saw one rather stunning gathering of individuals roaring with encouragement. In a semicircle around a pile of miscellaneous weapons sat a group of dwarves with the armor of the Legion of the Dead, cheering with tankards in hand as an elf with her back to Esfera rapidly shot out of the sky whatever darkspawn pieces the dwarves tossed up in the air, expertly changing the trajectory of the toss so that it instead fell into the flames.

Impressed, Esfera moved closer to the group. “Should you all be wasting arrows in this way?” she asked, her hands on her hips.

The group halted in their revelry, the elf turning toward her, lowering the bow. Now that she was more than a silhouette against the firelight, Esfera could see that the bow was clearly a Dalish weapon, but different, its yew wood surface glowing with an impressive assortment of runes, some of which Esfera didn’t recognize.

“Oh we use only the bad ones for this kind of tomfoolery,” the elf assured her, lifting the bow to the light. She had a lilting accent unfamiliar to Esfera even considering her time with Zathrian’s Dalish clan in the Brecilian Forest. It softened her words, sliding them together and making her a bit difficult to understand. “We were just testing the modifications to my bow, you see.” She narrowed her bright blue-green eyes at Esfera, stepping out of the firelight so that her brown skin and dark hair were more than shadows. “I s’pose you’re the lady in charge of this auspicious force, eh?”

“I suppose I am,” Esfera replied, noting the dwarves already lost in their flagons of ale. “And you are? You are not Ferelden, are you?”

“No, I’m Dalish,” the elven woman replied with a grin.

When Esfera responded only with a raised eyebrow, the woman snorted and sat down next to the fire, grabbing a pair of flagons and holding one up to Esfera. “I’m Rianeth, representing Clan Lavellan and Mahariel’s second in command, though I don’t ‘spect a shem to remember it. Your army hails from far places, Warden. I, for one, tend to stay around Wycome, in the Free Marches.”

“So far indeed! I am honored by your willingness to make such a journey, Rianeth of Clan Lavellan.”

“Yeah…” Rianeth raised an eyebrow. “You’ve had an unusual impact on my people for your call to have echoed so far. Regardless, both our bows and the hands and eyes behind them are the best in Thedas, I assure you. The Dalish are ready to face the Blight at your side. My people asked me and Mahariel to tell you this. I planned on saying it tomorrow, though. Didn’t expect you to come to me.”

Esfera sat down next to her, accepting the flagon but not drinking out of it, much as she wanted to. “I am honored, Rianeth. And for the aid of the Legion, of course,” she said with a weak smile, lifting her flagon to the assembled dwarves. “I had not expected to see such mingling of the troops. But I am more pleased than disappointed.”

One of the dwarves belched. “We’ve all got plenty in common, Warden! Eat, drink, piss, shit, and kill darkspawn. If there’s any other bickering that’s for the people in charge to worry about.”

Despite herself, Esfera chuckled. “I suppose you are right. So Rianeth’s bow is…”

“Oh, I cooked that one up for her,” one of the other dwarves announced, tipping back the last drops of his ale. “I’m just an apprentice craftsman, but Rianeth gets us the good elven food, way better than the nug meat and dirt ale our own captains give us.”

“I see.”

Rianeth shrugged. “Sometimes it was nice to get away from the bickering of the clans and be around the dwarves instead. Dwarves don’t bicker. They fight. It’s much more entertaining.”

Esfera felt a smile ghost her lips, but it was only a moment before she was reminded of why she was sitting in the camp and not in her room. “You said that you are second only to Mahariel as leader of the Dalish forces, did you not, Rianeth?” she asked, pushing down her sick feeling. “Neither of you are mages. I thought the Keepers led the Dalish.”

Rianeth smiled wryly. “Usually, yes. But these are unusual times, Warden,” she finished, gesturing to her dwarven friends. “And few Keepers have seen enough combat to be considered our finest warriors. It somehow ended up this way. Are you disappointed?”

Esfera looked around at the assembled dwarves, the other Dalish elves who came to chat with the group, brandishing other modified bows, the Circle mages leaning in curiously. She shook her head, smiling. “No. I am not disappointed at all. I could ask for no better army.”

“Speaking of which--” Rianeth interrupted, rolling to her feet without spilling her ale and grabbing her bow with her other hand, “we’ve all got a march tomorrow. You’re our big important hero, ain’t ya? Shouldn’t you be getting some sleep?”

Esfera’s insides twisted, and she forced a smile, but she could feel Rianeth’s piercing gaze on her face and knew that the elf could sense something wrong. “I suppose I should be. But with such a battle looming so close, I… find the inside of the castle stifling. How can I sleep comfortably in a bed when we may die tomorrow on the cold earth?”

“To dying on the cold earth!” the dwarves cheered, lifting their flagons. “Rianeth! Another!”

“Aye, ya foolish drunkards, I’ll teach you how to shoot,” she laughed, getting to her feet. “You’d better be able to walk tomorrow, though; you’re too damned heavy to carry all the way to Denerim…”

For a long while, Esfera watched the elves show off their shooting tricks, followed by very drunk dwarves attempting the same with their stronger but less flexible crossbows, missing their marks considerably.

Only once the bonfire had finally crumbled to smoldering ashes and most of the revelry had faded into passing out drunk did Esfera finally manage to close her eyes against the night and the clouds at the edge of her mind, for once relieved to have the familiar nightmare of the Archdemon instead of dreams of her own, conjured by her own aching heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I realize several things about this chapter. One, that it is ungodly long. It was actually almost longer! I had hoped to get to the end of the events of DAO by the end of this chapter in order to fit into my planned timeline. It... did not work out as planned. Two, this took an INCREDIBLY LONG TIME to write. Four months, give or take. Though most of it wasn't actually me struggling to write so much as life happened, I was in a bad mental state, and then I was busy and/or distracted. But fear not! I am officially back on my bullshit and I will hopefully be able to continue this!


End file.
